


A Christmas Connection

by jadztone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Don't copy to another site, Fandom Trumps Hate, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Humor, Frottage, M/M, No Underage Sex, POV Mycroft Holmes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, References to Drug Use, Unresolved Sexual Tension, references to other sexual partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadztone/pseuds/jadztone
Summary: It’s Christmas 1974 and Mycroft and Greg meet for the first time in France. Mycroft is visiting his Grandmere Vernet and Greg’s family have just inherited a fortune and the estate next door.  Over the next 38 years the holidays show glimpses into their life choices, influenced more by ambition and social expectations than the desires of their hearts.  Will the time ever be right for love?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade
Comments: 50
Kudos: 112
Collections: Mystrade Holiday 2019





	1. 1974 and 1978

**Author's Note:**

> : I’ve set the ages of Mycroft and Greg the same as their portrayers. Mark was born in 1966 and Rupert in 1963.
> 
> Many scenes are set in France, and the idea is to imagine as you read that when they are speaking to French people, they are speaking French, except during the early years when I note that they are not yet fluent.
> 
> I’ve made every attempt as an American to research all things British and French, and my memories as a 46 yr old to avoid anachronisms. I also attempted to imagine what it might have been like as gay men during this era, though I didn’t delve too deeply – it’s a part of their story but not the focus.  
> I’m sure I got some things wrong, but keep in mind it’s an AU in an already fictional setting – comment if something is wildly inaccurate or jarring, but otherwise please be forgiving. 😊

1974 – 8 and 11

Mycroft gazed solemnly down at his baby brother tucked snugly in the moses basket on the seat next to him. He’d never tell mum (or else she’d coo and go all wobbly), but he thought Sherlock had the most fascinating eyes. They were a bit droopy at the moment, the rocking of the car lulling him to sleep. Mum would be relieved, she was worried that he’d be fussy when they got to grandmama’s house. Mycroft mentally corrected himself. Grand _mere_. Grandmere Vernet. 

Mycroft only vaguely remembered her. According to Mum, he’d been three years old the last time they were in France. Most of his impressions were of the soft touches of her hand to his cheek and the smell of vanilla and sugar.

Speaking of sugar, Mycroft wondered if Mum would allow him to have some more sweets now that his stomach settled down. Maybe if he promised to pay attention to how many he’d eaten this time. 

Mum turned in her seat to look back at him, and he wondered if she’d read his thoughts. “Darling, look.” She pointed out the window.

There was a break in the trees, followed by a wide stretch of lawn that went on and on. At the end of the lawn was a great big house. Mycroft’s eyes widened. “I don’t remember Grandmere’s house being that big!”

Mum gave him a fond chuckle. “That’s not the Vernet cottage, my dear. That’s the Lestrade estate. But we’re close. Your grandmere lives right on the edge of the Lestrade property.” Even as she spoke, Papa was turning off the main road.

Mycroft scrunched up his face. “Le…strade?” He tried to pronounce it with the French accent as Mum said it.

She chuckled again and repeated it back to him. They went through this a few more times until he eventually got it correct. Or she may have decided to stop trying. 

Soon they were pulling up to the cottage, and Mycroft thought it looked somewhat familiar. As Papa was turning off the car, a woman came out of the front door, a happy smile on her face. Mycroft remembered her more fully now. She gave soft hugs that made him feel squirmy and loved at the same time.

As they got out of the car, Grandmere came towards them, speaking rapidly in French. Mycroft only understood a few words – happy, baby, sons. Papa told her in an admonishing tone that he doesn’t know French and Mycroft only knew a little. 

She tutted at him and then switched to English as she turned to Mycroft. “Oh my, you are growing up so fast!” She gave him a hug and he noted that he didn’t feel as squirmy. Maybe it had been his age, he was more calm now. Before he could say anything, she was turning to coo into the moses basket. He had to keep from rolling his eyes. Everyone always wanted to focus on the baby.

In a soft tone, Mum said, “He just fell back asleep, it’s probably better if he stays that way while we unload the car. Will you take him into the house, Mama?”

Grandmere nodded with enthusiasm as she carefully extracted the basket from the car and headed towards the cottage. Mycroft couldn’t understand the uneasy feeling in his gut when he saw someone he barely knew carrying his baby brother. He might have thought it was fear of something happening to him, but surely that couldn’t be it? If Mum trusted her mother with Sherlock, then Mycroft should as well. Still, he watched her closely as he followed her inside.

*

Mycroft was reading one of the books Mum had packed, when he heard the adults in the kitchen mention the name Lestrade. He was very curious about the house and wondered what sort of people lived there. He put down his book and crept over to the entrance of the kitchen, not going in as he knew they would immediately stop talking. Grandmere was explaining that Mr. Lestrade died over the summer, and his son inherited the estate. He and his family would be arriving soon from London. 

Grandmere said it would be the first time she saw the son in 15 years. He was estranged from his father when he decided to marry an English ballerina instead of one of the wealthy French girls. The ballerina did have some money, but Elder Lestrade was not impressed. The son moved with his wife to London so she could continue her career and he could make a name for himself in the business world without his father’s influence. 

From what she had heard, he wasn’t as successful as he thought he would be. They got by, but certainly this inheritance would be a boon. Mum asked Grandmere if they had children, and she said that they have just one – a son a few years older than Mycroft. 

Papa came in at that moment, and Mycroft darted away from his listening spot. 

*

Mycroft didn’t think he could take much more of Sherlock’s crying. He asked Mum if he could go for a walk. She agreed, insisting that he bundle up. Once he’d put on enough layers to satisfy her, he started to go out the front door. Grandmere put a hand on his shoulder. “Be sure to stay in the area of the Lestrade estate and you won’t get lost.” He nodded solemnly, then escaped out the door into blissful silence.

Grandmere hadn’t needed to tell him to stick close to the estate. He was fascinated by it and wanted to explore as much as he could, get as close as he dared. He pressed up against a tree that was close to where the edge of the forest met the sprawling lawn. He carefully tilted his head to peer out from behind the tree. He was very close to the corner of the house. There was a window facing him. It was low and wide and he could see inside. It looked a bit like a dining room, with a long table. 

Mycroft thought he saw something move on the far side of the room. He gasped and jerked his head out of sight, flipping around so his back was against the tree. In his panic, he almost didn’t notice that there was a boy standing a couple yards away, staring at him. Mycroft let out a scream, which he promptly stifled by slapping his hand to his mouth.

The boy started laughing. Not in a cruel way, like some of the other kids from the nearby village in Sussex. The boy’s eyes twinkled with mirth, like he was sharing the joke. “You’d make a rubbish spy, you know that?” He shook his head. “I was standing there for five minutes watching you watching the house. You had no idea.”

Mycroft blinked at him, not knowing how to respond. The boy looked older than him, two or three years. He wondered if this was…

“Greg Lestrade,” the boy said and stuck out his hand. 

Mycroft’s manners snapped into place. He straightened up from the tree and shook Greg’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Greg Lestrade.” He laboured to pronounce the name as Mum had in the car. “I am Mycroft Holmes.” he said solemnly. 

Greg laughed as he pumped Mycroft’s hand up and down. “No, it’s Lestrade. My grandfather probably wanted people to say it like you did, but I’m from London, we don’t say it so French there. _Your_ name is interesting. It sounds posh. And you’re dressed posh, too. Do you live in one of the other big houses rambling around here?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, my Grandmere lives in a cottage over there a bit.” He pointed. “I live in Sussex. And we’re not posh at all. You’re the one that’s posh, you live in this great big house.”

Greg blew out a puff of air. “I don’t feel posh. My grandfather left the house to us when he died a few months ago. I’ve never met him. Never been here before, either. We lived in a small terraced house. Still do, I guess. I heard Dad say to Mum that we’ll stay there a couple more years and then they plan to send me to boarding school and move in here. We’re just visiting at the moment, taking a look at the place.”

Mycroft fidgeted with his coat. He wasn’t used to other kids talking to him so much, certainly never sharing things about themselves. “We’re just visiting, too. My little brother was born in January and my parents wanted to bring him to meet Grandmere. I’m told the last time I was here was five years ago. I was three, so I don’t remember much.” He swallowed, hoping he hadn’t bored the other boy.

Greg grinned. “Well, I could see just now that you’re dying to see inside the place. I can show you around, if you like?”

Mycroft’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Yes!”

The other boy chuckled and waved his hand. “Alright, let’s go, then!” 

His first glimpse once he was inside the house made him goggle in amazement. He’d seen giant chandeliers in movies, but never one in person. There was even a sweeping staircase. Greg saw him eyeing the stairs and waved his hand again, darting up to the second floor, Mycroft scrambled to keep up.

At the top of the stairs, Greg pointed down a hallway. “Mum says these are called wings, which makes it sound like it’s some great bloody bird. There are two of them.” He turned and pointed down the hallway on the opposite end. “She says you could have two separate families living in them. If my dad and grandfather hadn’t had their big blow up, we might have been living here all this time, down that wing.” He pointed to his right. “Dad says that some day I can bring my family here to live and we could all be together.” He wrinkled his nose. “As if I want to get married. What nonsense. I do like that I can run up and down the halls and not run into anyone.” 

With that as a warning, he bolted down one of the hallways. Mycroft strove to keep up with him, marvelling at how many doors they passed. Were all these bedrooms? Maybe a couple of them were studies. Mum and Papa had studies at home, into which they retreated to do work. They were both teachers and needed to do work even at home. Mum also wrote maths books that were used in schools.

Greg reached the end of the hallway, which had a table with a vase on it. He touched the vase and then switched direction to race back to the other end. Mycroft gasped when the vase wobbled a bit, blowing out a sigh of relief when it settled. Greg swept by him. “C’mon! Downstairs is all the fun stuff.”

By the time they made it back down to the main level, Mycroft was out of breath. He wasn’t used to running around with other kids. Greg made a hurry up gesture as he opened a door just to the left of the entranceway. Mycroft followed him inside the room.

There was a small cluster of tables to one side, an upright piano on the other side, and a bar in the middle. There was also a record player in the corner next to the tables. Greg was heading towards it. “I forget what they call this room, but it’s where guests like to drink and play cards and dance. D’you like Christmas music?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I suppose.” 

Greg held up a record that had been sitting on the table next to the player. It said ‘Elton John’ and ‘Step Into Christmas.’ “My mum got this for me last year after I begged her for it. I’d never heard a Christmas song like this. I like to dance to it.” He put it into the player and set it to begin. “You heard of him?”

Mycroft shrugged. “My folks like to play classical.”

The music started, and it was indeed unusual for a holiday song. Very upbeat. Greg began flinging his body about, which Mycroft supposed was what he had meant by dancing. His enthusiasm was infectious and Mycroft was soon joining in. 

When the song finished, Greg was laughing in delight. “My dad gets annoyed when I play it. I don’t think he likes Elton John. Calls him things I’d never heard of. I don’t get it…just because he likes to wear shiny suits and a feather boa. I think it’s brilliant. If you can sing that good, you should wear whatever you want.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “But why would he want to wear a feather boa? Wouldn’t it tickle?”

Greg laughed. “Because it’s different. Not boring. I like it when not everything and everyone is the same.”

Mycroft scowled. “I wish that I could be the same as everyone else. It’s like you’re invisible, then. No one will take any notice.” He blushed as he said it, almost admitting to the other boy that he was bullied.

Greg frowned. “I suppose you’re right, but it’s no fun that way. Differences are fun. Like your freckles. I don’t know anyone with freckles.” Mycroft’s blush deepened. His spots were one of the things he was teased about the most. “Alright, let’s go look at the library next. You look like the sort who likes books.”

Mycroft smiled for the first time that day. “Yes, that…would be quite nice.” He tried to hold back some of his enthusiasm, but Greg saw right through him. His eyes gleamed as he led the way to the library.

Over the next few days, the boys spent as much time as they could with each other whenever they didn’t have family obligations. Mycroft invited Greg to the cottage to meet his Grandmere, who plied them with Christmas sweets. Greg told Mycroft later that he still missed his grandmother from his mum’s side, who died when he was 5. He never knew his father’s mother, she died when his dad was small. Mycroft said he was happy to share his grandmere. 

Mycroft was truly sad when the day after Boxing Day he had to say goodbye to Greg. It was the first time he had ever felt like he connected with another child. He hoped very much that they would come back to visit Grandmere next year.

1978 – 12 and 15

They did not go back to France the next year, or the next. Not until Mycroft was 12 years old did they decide to go visit Grandmere Vernet again. By that point Mycroft had partially forgotten the boy, only recalling him when he particularly clashed with one of the village kids. On those occasions, feeling wounded by their cruelty, he wondered why they couldn’t be more accepting of his differences like Greg had been.

This journey was more irritating than the previous, given that Sherlock was almost four years old and teeming with too much energy to endure sitting still for so long. It was a very long drive, taking the entire day, with only the ferry across the Channel to break up the monotony. It had grown dark by the time they were passing the Lestrade estate, and Mycroft could see that the house was well lit. He wondered if Greg was inside.

That night, after Sherlock had been put to bed and Mycroft was allowed to stay up as long as he occupied himself quietly, he carefully listened at the kitchen door for any gossip. He was rewarded for his efforts when Grandmere gave his parents an update, saying that the Lestrades moved in two years ago when their son was old enough to go off to boarding school. The family mostly kept to themselves, but Greg still came by for Christmas sweets whenever he was home from school. Mycroft smiled to himself. Clearly Greg had taken it to heart his offer to ‘share’ his grandmere.

The next day, Mycroft escaped the cottage and his terror of a brother to go for a walk. He admitted to himself that he was hoping to run into Greg in the same manner that he did last time. Unfortunately, it didn’t happen again. Mycroft kept skirting the edge of the estate, but saw no sign of his erstwhile companion. He was disappointed, but the walk had been bracing and quiet. Mycroft always appreciated the quiet of winter. Animals were hibernating, birds had flown south, and there were no leaves to rustle in the wind.

When he got back to the cottage, he was surprised to hear Sherlock giggling. He went into the sitting room and saw a young man sitting on the couch, tickling his brother. Grandmere came in from the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour. “Oh good, you are back! I told Greg he had to wait until you were here before icing the biscuits.”

The young man looked up and grinned at him. Mycroft blinked. It was definitely Greg, but he didn’t look like a boy anymore. Greg stood up. “Good to see you, mate!” He gave him an assessing glance. “Doesn’t look like you changed much except your height. Your brother’s the one who looks completely different. Last time he was a baby and now he’s a right terror.” Greg laughed and ruffled Sherlock’s hair and Mycroft felt a twinge of annoyance. He wasn’t sure if it was because someone else called his brother a terror when he was the only one allowed, or if he was jealous that his brother was getting the attention. It seemed like it was a little of both.

Unable to think of anything else to say, Mycroft replied, “You’re a teenager.” He groaned inwardly. He hated when people made obvious statements.

Greg laughed again. “Yup! Fifteen now. In six months I’ll be sixteen and can get a moped! I can’t wait.”

Mycroft forced a smile. Their age difference seemed much wider than it had last time. They were both still boys then, but now Greg was eager to leave boyhood behind. Mycroft didn’t know why he found this so disheartening. It wasn’t like they were friends drifting apart. He’d spent a few days in Greg’s company years ago, and they’d have only done the same this time as well. Mycroft was used to being alone. In many ways it was preferable.

Grandmere clapped her hands. “Alright, gentlemen, if you want biscuits you have to decorate them first. Let’s go!” They followed her dutifully into the kitchen and spent the rest of the afternoon icing and decorating sugar biscuits and gingerbread men. Even Sherlock joined in, making a mess of himself with icing. Mycroft wasn’t sure he should be having so much sugar as he tended to go off like a rocket after eating sweets.

Mycroft was feeling a bit shy about making conversation with a teenager, but Grandmere took the lead, chatting amiably. “So, Gregory, do you have a girl back home that you’re sweet on?”

Greg laughed and shook his head, his curls twitching. “My school is all boys, and we rarely ever get to see any girls. I was hoping to meet someone here while I’m on my break. Someone to kiss under the mistletoe.” He winked, his eyes twinkling.

Grandmere chuckled. “If that is your goal, I think you will find that most of the local girls like to spend time at the ice-skating rink down the road.”

Greg’s face lit up. “Really? Thank you, ma’am, it’s the perfect idea. I happen to know my way around ice skates.”

Grandmere gave him an amused look. “You should take Mycroft with you. Then it will not look so much like you are there to steal kisses.”

Greg blushed and ducked his head. “Aw, I’d never try to steal a kiss. Much more fun to charm them into wanting to give me one.”

Grandmere shook her head in mock admonition. “I have no doubt you would succeed.”

Mycroft scowled, not liking the idea of being used for the purpose of meeting girls. Grandmere saw his look. “I am sure there will be girls your age, too, my dear.”

Mycroft’s scowl deepened and Greg tipped his head back and laughed. “I don’t think he’s quite ready for that, yet. Give it another year.” Mycroft huffed in skepticism. He had enough trouble with the concept of friendship, romance was quite out. He was glad when the subject changed to school and he could quiz Greg about the types of classes he was taking. 

In the end, Mycroft agreed to go ice skating with Greg as it was a way to get out of the cottage and away from his little brother. He made the short journey over to the big house, and the housekeeper pointed the way to the recreation room. Mycroft felt déjà vu when he saw Greg standing over by the record player looking through some albums.

“Hey, Myc! Just trying to figure out what I want to play later if I manage to get a girl to come back here with me. Some music to set the mood, you know.”

Mycroft didn’t know. “Christmas music?”

Greg laughed. “Of course, but something romantic. My dad was suggesting ‘Baby it’s Cold Outside’ or ‘I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm.’ I dunno, those sound pretty old-fashioned. Do girls these days like Frank Sinatra? What about ‘Winter Wonderland?’ Too whimsical?”

Mycroft gave him a droll look. “Are you really asking me advice about how to romance a girl?”

Greg snorted. “I guess you’re right. Eh, I’ll decide later. Come on then, Mum’s going to drive us.”

Mycroft expected to have a rubbish time at the skating rink. He predicted his legs would trip him up given he was still getting used to his recent growth spurt, but he ended up doing a fair job of it. Greg’s encouragement helped. 

Mycroft also expected to be abandoned at every opportunity, but Greg was pretty decent about splitting his time with Mycroft and flirting with random girls. Periodically he’d buy Mycroft a hot cocoa, which sweetened his irritation whenever Greg began chatting up a girl at the next table. 

The teen wasn’t having much success. After yet another failed conversation, he came back over and slumped down across the table from Mycroft. Narrowing his eyes at Greg, he finally decided to ask what had been eating at him all afternoon. “What is the point of all this?”

Greg’s brow furrowed. “What d’you mean?”

Mycroft shrugged one shoulder. “You told Grandmere you wanted to kiss someone under the mistletoe, but isn’t that meant to be someone special? You don’t know any of these girls.”

Greg huffed out a laugh. “I got to start somewhere! If I can get them kissing me, then maybe it’ll lead to other things.” He ran his fingers through his curls in agitation. “All the guys in my class, it’s all they can talk about. Getting off with a girl.” Mycroft gave him a questioning look and he snorted. “No, I’m not explaining what that means. You’re not ready for that. But _I’m_ ready. Christ I’m gagging for it.” His eyes trailed after a girl walking by.

Mycroft tilted his head. “Gagging for _what_?”

Greg got a strange look on his face. “Someone to feel close to. Who’ll make me feel something. A connection, I guess.”

Mycroft sipped his cocoa, trying to ignore the twinge of recognition Greg’s words invoked. “You don’t have that at your school?”

Greg’s eyes went wide. “What?”

Mycroft stared up at him. “Friends. Other boys you feel close to?”

Greg’s face turned pink. “I-I’m talking about romance. N-not friendship. But to answer your question, not really. All the other boys are so posh. I can’t relate to them at all. I mean, I guess I’m rich, too. But I didn’t grow up that way. I didn’t have the same experiences they did.” He sighed. “I can tell my dad is frustrated I don’t fit in more. See, he was more like the other kids. He grew up here, in that house.”

Mycroft regarded his cocoa. “I know what you mean…a little. My mum has been teaching Sherlock and I at home because she thinks we’re too smart for the schools in Sussex. But she’s started to realise I’m not ‘properly socialised’ as she calls it. I don’t get on with other kids. I think next year she’s going to start me at the local school. I’m really not…” His voice hitched and he tried to calm himself. “… _not_ looking forward to it.”

Greg gave him a sympathetic look. “Tough break. Look, here’s how I try to deal with it, maybe it’ll help you. When you think about it, this is only a small part of your life. Someday you’ll be an adult, and you’ll have years and years to do whatever you want. School is just a small blip on the radar. It’ll go by faster than you think. Just keep your head down and count the years till you escape. Alright?”

Mycroft had to admit he felt a little better. Greg had some good points. “Alright,” he said, a small smile curving his lips. 

Greg smiled, his eyes sparkling. “Come on, let’s go blow off some steam on the ice before Mum gets here.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to flirt with some more girls.”

Greg sighed. “I’ll try again tomorrow. Hey, do me a favor and don’t say a word about the stuff I was telling you earlier? I don’t need them thinking I’ve given you the short version of the birds and the bees.” Mycroft didn’t know what he was talking about, but he nodded his assent.

*

The rest of the time followed a similar pattern. When they weren’t doing holiday things with their families, they were stuffing themselves with Christmas biscuits or going to the ice rink. Mycroft observed Greg’s behaviour with girls, slowly analyzing what it was he was doing wrong.

The day before Mycroft was set to leave, he went over to the Lestrade estate, finding Greg sitting on the floor next to the record player. Mycroft recognised the song as Winter Wonderland. He glanced at the sleeve on the table and saw that it said Louis Armstrong. He listened for a bit. “I think I like this version.”

The expression on Greg’s face seemed…wistful. “I know it’s silly, but I think it’s the most romantic Christmas song. Just two people taking a walk and enjoying the quiet beauty of winter, pretending to be married by a snowman, then cuddling in front of a fire.” He blushed a deep red. “Sappy, right?”

Mycroft shrugged and lowered himself to the floor to sit cross-legged facing Greg. “I dunno, but it sounds like something a girl might actually like. Maybe if you did that instead of trying to look cool.”

Greg huffed out a rueful laugh. “I guess I was coming on a bit strong. Trying way too hard. They could see my desperation.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “Why were you so desperate, Greg? You said before that you wanted a connection, but everything you said to those girls…it was like you didn’t really care about them. You just cared about the goal. Getting off as you call it.”

Greg gave him a sharp look. “You don’t even know what that is.”

Mycroft snorted. “I think I’ve got some idea. I know it involves something other than your _heart_ , which doesn’t make sense because you seem like someone who leads with your heart.” He narrowed his eyes. “It’s like it’s not really about them. It’s more like…you have something to prove.”

Greg shot to his feet. “I don’t have a _damn_ thing to prove!”

Mycroft scrambled to his feet as well, staring wide-eyed at Greg’s outburst. 

Greg turned to the table and gripped the edges with his hands. “You don’t get it, Mycroft. Your hormones haven’t kicked in yet. It’s…really frustrating to want to be close to someone, to want to kiss and touch and…” He glanced at Mycroft and gave a vague wave of his hand,” …other stuff. To have those feelings churning your gut, and there are _no_ girls around. Just…other boys. It messes with your head. Makes you think…” Greg stopped and gave him a pained look. “And then there’s my dad. He’s been implying things, just because I like to listen to David Bowie. Bloody hell.” Greg scrubbed his hand over his face. “Maybe I am trying to prove something.”

Mycroft stared at him in bewilderment. In a semi-contrite tone, he said, “You’re right, I don’t get it. I mean I really, _really_ don’t understand a word you just said.” 

Greg stared at him incredulously for a few moments, then dissolved into laughter. “You…you _git_!”

At Greg’s exasperated smile, Mycroft relaxed and gave him a pitying look. “It’s really your own fault, Greg. You’ve been spending your holiday with a 12-year-old kid.”

Greg’s mouth dropped open. “That’s it, get your coat on! We’re going outside and I’m gonna murder you with snowballs.”


	2. 1982

1982 – 16 and 19

Mycroft fidgeted as the car ate away the kilometres, hurtling ever closer to Grandmere’s cottage and the Lestrade estate. He felt stupid for being this nervous. He was such a cliché, building up in his head a boy that he barely knew. Someone who had been nice to him a handful of times over almost a decade. Sherlock was now the age Mycroft had been when he met Greg. 

He’d often wished over the past four years that he’d plucked up the courage to ask for Greg’s address so they could be pen pals. He hadn’t, relying on the foolish belief that his family would be back to visit Grandmere sooner this time. Instead, it was another four years later. 

Greg would be 19 by now. Probably at university. Probably spending his winter break skiing in the Alps with friends or whatever it was rich kids did. Mycroft almost hoped that he was, so he wouldn’t have to worry about embarrassing himself. Who knew what manner of nonsense would fly involuntarily from his mouth if he were to see in person the eyes that have been haunting his dreams. 

Mycroft was mostly sure that his memory of an attractive 15-year-old Greg was completely false, bourne of hormones that had awakened in the past couple of years. And oh, how Mycroft understood Greg’s lamenting words about being _close_ to someone. Though in Mycroft’s case it wasn’t a female’s touch he longed for.

He’d found himself occasionally analyzing Greg’s words that night he opened up to Mycroft, about having something to prove. Had it been because his father was wrong? Or because he was _right_?

“You look constipated, brother mine. What’s got you in a tizzy?”

Mycroft turned his head to look at Sherlock, who was slouched against the far window giving him a speculative look. Not about to tell the truth, he shrugged one shoulder. “Trying to remember if I packed my thick pair of gloves. I like to go for walks in the woods around Grandmere’s home, and there’s also an ice-skating rink I enjoyed the last time I was there.”

Sherlock scowled. “I remember that. You kept going with that other boy and never took me. I went with Mum a couple of times, but it wasn’t the same.” He gave Mycroft a look of dramatic betrayal.

Mycroft chuckled. “Sorry, brother mine. I see you all the time and I wanted to spend time with someone more my age.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “He wasn’t, though. He’s older.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m closer to his age than to yours.”

Sherlock huffed and looked out the window. “I wonder if he’ll be there, again. If so, I must be sure to tell him that I am long past the age of tickling.” He lifted his chin. 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Sure about that?” His hand darted forward and Sherlock yelped and shrank back. They stopped when Mum turned her head and gave them her sternest mum glare.

When the car passed the Lestrade estate, it was as if no time had passed at all. Just as before, all the windows glowing with light in the gloom of the winter dusk. Mycroft’s eyes darted around to see if he could catch a glimpse of Greg. 

There was further déjà vu as Grandmere came out to greet them and exclaimed over how much her two grandsons had grown. She bundled everyone inside and into the kitchen where she’d prepared a charcuterie. She explained, “I was not sure when you would get in or what sort of appetite you would have.” 

It was the perfect repast. They sat around the table, eating dribs and drabs of meat, cheese, crusty bread, and fruit. Grandmere declared that Mycroft was old enough to have a glass of wine and poured him one. Mum looked like she had swallowed a piece of cheese the wrong way, but said nothing. Mycroft slowly sipped his wine, inwardly cringing over the lack of sweetness.

Eventually Sherlock darted off to the sitting room to peruse the bookshelf he’d glimpsed when they came in. Apparently, Mycroft was deemed old enough for gossip, too, because Grandmere started in on the local news as soon as the youngest son was out of earshot. 

Mycroft waited impatiently until she got around to the only bit he cared about – the Lestrades. His pulse spiked when she finally said the name, but then had to endure a few more minutes of stories about Mrs. Lestrade’s successful charitable endeavours and Mr. Lestrade’s not-so-successful business ventures. Their son was another mixed blessing, and here Grandmere gave Mycroft a sidelong glance as if she’d detected his eagerness.

Greg’s father had been over-the-moon when he was accepted into UCL. However, he wasn’t as thrilled by Greg’s extracurricular activities, which included hanging out with other teens who were into punk music like the Sex Pistols. 

Mycroft’s initial reaction to this news was a mixture of humour at his Grandmere pronouncing it, ‘zex peestolz,’ and trepidation over the fact that Greg was now a punk. On excursions to Brighton, Mycroft had got quite an eyeful of the teens who were determined to rage against the machine via leather jackets in the summer, kohl around the eyes, mohawks, and screaming along to an electric guitar. Mycroft understood their need for an outlet, but in Greg’s case he despaired at the thought of those brown curls bullied into spikes via hair gel and spray.

The next day Mycroft took his now traditional walk around the property. This time he caught sight of Greg before the other spotted him. His worries had been partially unfounded – the other boy’s hair _was_ straightened, but not forced into standing at attention. However, he had a new set of worries to contend with, that of seeing Greg in a leather jacket. His eyes were also rimmed in black, which Mycroft noticed when Greg turned at the sound of him approaching. It was a subtle version of punk, and it had the effect of causing Mycroft’s hormones to go into revolt.

What was even worse – Mycroft’s memories hadn’t been exaggerating, after all. Greg was in fact obscenely good-looking. Mycroft wasn’t sure he was going to survive the next week. Greg’s face lit up with a smile as they approached each other, and Mycroft re-evaluated his assessment- he won’t last a day.

“Well, well, well, look at you, Mycroft! Grown up a bit, I see. Not too much, though – you’re still not as tall as me.” 

Mycroft protested, “We’re the same height!”

He had cause to regret his words when Greg shook his head and said, “Nah, see...” He stepped up to Mycroft until they were almost touching noses, and passed his hand over the tops of their heads. “I’m taller.”

Mycroft forcefully suppressed the shudder that threatened to sweep through him. “Well, I’m likely to get taller. My father says the family are late bloomers.”

Greg’s grin widened. “That means you’re still a growing boy. Not an adult yet, like I am.” He took a step back and ran his eyes up and down Mycroft’s body. “Trying hard to look like one, though, with that trench coat and oxfords.” 

Mycroft bristled. “I happen to like this style, and I don’t take judgment on my shoes from someone with studs on his boots.”

Greg guffawed. “Good for you, mate. Stand strong. So, what have you been up to in the past…what is it? Four years?” He started walking, tilting his head to indicate Mycroft should follow.

Mycroft fell into step next to him, inhaling the sharp, cold air that carried a hint of wood burning in a fireplace. “Well, I don’t know if you remember…I was being educated at home and worried I’d soon have to go to secondary school. I was right. My parents enrolled me the next year in order to socialise me. I was horrified when I found out they decided to put me with others my age. My intellect was advanced enough I could have skipped a year or two. I should be taking my A levels now.” He sniffed, still put out about it. “I’ve only survived because of the advice you gave me, Greg. Put my head down, get through it, and remind myself I’d be an adult soon enough.”

Greg’s expression softened. “M’glad it helped. Is that why you’re dressed as a miniature codger? As a visual reminder of adulthood?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I am neither miniature nor styled like a codger. What about you, then. What’s with all the leather?”

Greg blew out a gust of air, watching it puff up and then disappear. “M’dad would say I’m rebelling against him, and that would certainly be true. It’s also a pushback against the other students at UCL. I thought it would be different from boarding school, but it’s like they’re even worse. Bunch of arrogant fuckwits. Last year when I was home for Christmas, I needed to get out and went for a drive. Found a bar that had a punk band playing. When I walked in, they were covering a Clash song.” His voice lilted as he sang, “Should I stay or should I go?” He huffed out a laugh. “Made me think about whether I should drop out, go off and do my own thing.”

Mycroft tilted his head. “And why didn’t you?”

Greg shrugged. “Because I wouldn’t know what the fuck to do. I figured if I made a rash move, then I’d end up washing dishes the rest of my life. My trust fund kicks in when I’m 21, but there’s contingencies that say I have to be stable so I don’t piss away the entire fortune. I decided the best thing to do is stay the course until I get my money, and then figure out what to do with it.”

Mycroft gave him a half smile. “A sound plan.” 

Greg tilted his head back and groaned. “It’s the worst! I feel like I’m in an asylum where everyone thinks they’re perfectly normal, and I’m the only one who understands how bloody awful it all is.” 

He stopped and turned. “You wanna hear something fucked up? Few days ago I was at that bar again. This time they were playing a new song that just came out called Terminal Preppie. Freaked me out because it perfectly describes what my dad wants my life to be like. I went out and bought the album and been playing it over and over. I can’t get it out of my head. Gonna be a cog in the faceless machine just to make the trustees happy and get my money. But what if I still don’t know what to do and I become a corporate zombie?”

They continued walking and Mycroft frowned. “You don’t have to become a ‘corporate zombie.’ You can do what you want, that’s the whole point of getting the money. You can just…be yourself.”

Greg grimaced. “Be a Terminal Punk instead? Nah. I like who I am right now, but I know that in 20 years it won’t be a good look for me.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You’re remarkably forward-thinking for someone dressed in leather and metal.”

Greg giggled. “Punks aren’t idiots, you snob.” He stopped and grabbed Mycroft’s arm, and he had to steel himself not to melt at Greg’s touch. “You know what you need? A little bit of a culture shock. Come with me to the bar tonight.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows went even higher. “I-I’m too young, they won’t let me in without a parent…”

Greg snorted. “They will if they see you’re with me. Besides, if you wear that get up, they’ll think you’re _my_ dad.”

Mycroft glared and knocked his hand away. “Fine, I’ll go with you. If you suffer embarrassment for being with someone so _uncool_ , it will be your own fault.”

*

The bar was about what Mycroft would expect of a place with motorcycles out front, leather everywhere, and a thick fog of smoke from various cigarettes and what Mycroft suspected was weed. Greg had been right, no one questioned Mycroft’s age. While Greg ordered them a couple of beers, Mycroft took off his trench coat to hang it up. 

As soon as Greg turned back to Mycroft, his eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open in a wide grin. Mycroft realised it was the first time Greg was seeing him without his coat on. He gave him a smarmy smile. “Do you like my argyle pullover?” 

Greg started wheezing with laughter. “That thing’s going to make me go cross-eyed. Christ almighty. All you’re missing is a bow tie.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “I prefer a regular tie. And I took it off so that I would appear more casual for our outing.” Greg laughed even harder, and Mycroft clenched his jaw as he felt himself go beet red.

Greg put his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders. “M’sorry, mate, I’m being a real arsehole. You look just fine. Adorable, really. It suits you.” 

Mycroft lifted his chin. “I agree that it suits me.”

Greg’s smile softened and he grabbed the two beers off the bar. “S’what I like about you. You know yourself well and you make no apologies. Cheers.” He handed Mycroft his beer and then clinked their bottles together.

Mycroft took a sip of beer and winced. He’d had some before at an Oktoberfest the family attended a couple months ago. His father kept sneaking him pints while his mother was off chasing after Sherlock to make sure _he_ wouldn’t sneak a pint. He decided he preferred the wine, though neither were appealing.

The band wasn’t in yet, but there was music piping in through a speaker and they could barely hear each other talk. When Greg was on his third beer and Mycroft had started his second, he told Greg a story about how he’d deduced his maths teacher was having an affair with the head teacher’s wife, and no one believed him till they were caught in a supply cupboard at the school. 

Greg seemed keenly interested in the tale, as he kept leaning in farther and farther like he wanted to be able to hear every word. Mycroft was getting flustered at his increasing proximity. When Mycroft finished with a description of the position they were rumoured to be found in, Greg’s eyes were glittering with delight and he was close enough to practically be in Mycroft’s lap.

Mycroft bit his lip, and Greg’s eyes dropped to his mouth. Mycroft felt a churning in his stomach and wondered if he should stop drinking, because it was making him think that perhaps Greg was _interested_. And it was also making him think of possibly telling Greg he reciprocated whatever it was.

A small, delicate hand appeared on Greg’s shoulder and pulled him away from Mycroft’s personal space. “Greg! I am so, so glad to see you. I need your help, badly.” 

Greg’s face lit up and he turned. “Lucie!” He kissed her on both cheeks, and Mycroft had to swallow his irritation. “Darlin, whatever you need.” 

She gave Greg a pouty look, and Mycroft had to admit she was very pretty. “Max is running late, he had a flat tyre, so I was wondering if you could do guitar a couple of songs till he gets here?”

Greg shrugged one shoulder. “Alright, I could do.” He turned to Mycroft. “You mind me abandoning you a bit?”

Mycroft waved his hand nonchalantly, while on the inside he was feeling rather breathless at the idea of seeing Greg play in a band. Though he didn’t appreciate seeing Greg behaving so cosy with the girl.

After setting up, they decided to start the night with a punk Christmas song called Christmas Wrapping. Mycroft nursed his third beer, starting to feel dizzy as he watched Greg bouncing around the stage with the guitar. The band was actually quite good. Lucie’s tone was playful as she sang the lyrics.

When it was over, Lucie told the crowd to shout out a word and they would play something with that word in the title. Someone yelled out, “Magic!” 

The crowd laughed and so did Lucie. “What, are we 10 years old?”

Someone in the audience started singing, “Oh oh oh, it’s magic!” Someone else continued, “You know!” And then everyone joined in, “Never believe it’s not so!”

Lucie laughed and made a cutting gesture. “Hey! No one is paying you to sing. _We_ are being paid and we will do the singing.” 

Greg stepped up. “Hey, how about we do Magic Power by Triumph.” 

Lucie frowned. “That is a good song, but it isn’t punk.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “We can make it punk.” He played the opening chords to the song, making it sound heavier than usual. Lucie nodded her approval, and he continued the song. The other players joined in with their instruments, and soon Lucie was singing about being young and wild and free. Mycroft realised why Greg liked the song. It was about living in a world of compromise and red tape, but music has the power of making you feel free. 

After another song, Lucie waved to someone who was coming through the crowd and then jumped on stage. “Max is finally here! Let’s take a short break and let him warm up. Everyone, thank Greg for filling in on guitar.” The crowd cheered and a grinning Greg jumped down from the stage and headed towards Mycroft. 

The bartender handed him a beer, and he leaned back on the bar, clearly in high spirits. Mycroft was about to compliment him on his performance when Lucie appeared. “You were wonderful, Greg! I wish you could play with us all the time. Thank you so much for saving us.”

Greg ducked his head. “It was nothing, I had fun.”

She raised her eyebrows. “It was not nothing.” She sidled up to him and leaned into his arm. “I must repay you somehow.” Mycroft’s heart lurched when Greg gave a throaty laugh and took a sip of beer. “I mean it, Greg,” she continued, and then leaned in even closer, her lips against his ear. She whispered something, and Greg’s eyes widened slightly, spots of colour appearing on his cheeks.

“Christ, Lucie! You can’t just say that to a man in public.” She giggled and Greg angled towards her, lifting his hand to stroke a finger down her cheek. “When your set is done, maybe we can go back to yours?” Mycroft wanted to scream.

She bit her lip. “You don’t mind waiting for me?”

He tapped the end of her nose. “Nah, I gotta take Myc home anyways, then I’ll come back here to get you.” Indignation poured through Mycroft at hearing Greg say right in front of him that he was to be ditched in her favour.

She gave a breathy sigh. “Perfect. See you after the set.” She waltzed off, and Greg watched her go.

He finally turned back to Mycroft, and he wanted to make some snarky comment about finally remembering he’d come here with someone. Even if it wasn’t a date, it was common courtesy. Greg gave a pointed look at his empty beer bottle. “Well, I think we’re done here. Are you ready to go?”

Mycroft pressed his lips together, a muscle worked in his jaw as he tried to control his anger. “I’m not sure that _you_ are ready to drive yet. You’ve had a lot to drink.”

Greg scoffed. “I burnt it all off on stage, I’m right as rain.”

Mycroft looked away and lifted his chin. “I’m not so sure.”

Greg narrowed his eyes, then walked up to Mycroft until they were almost nose to nose, just like yesterday. “Look me in the eyes, Myc. I’m perfectly fine to drive.”

Mycroft wanted to close his own eyes and just enjoy the feeling of Greg’s proximity. His heat, his gaze, even his breath that smelled of beer. Instead he forced himself to regard Greg objectively. His eyes were steady, clear, pupils of normal diametre for the lighting. Mycroft admitted that he was fine to drive.

With a triumphant smile, Greg slapped Mycroft’s shoulder. “C’mon then! Let’s get you back to your family, kid.”

Mycroft bristled at the use of ‘kid,’ but followed him out the door.

They got into the car, and Greg started the engine as he whistled a jaunty tune. Mycroft’s fingers curled into fists. He was stupid to be so upset and disappointed. His fantasies of charming Greg into bed were utterly ridiculous, meant to be used as material when he took himself in hand in private, not considered to be something that could ever become reality. 

Unable to take the whistling anymore, Mycroft blurted out, “So I guess you’ll finally be getting what you wanted for Christmas. Except instead of an ice-skating rink, it was a bar.” Greg gave him a bewildered look. Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh. “Getting off with a girl, I believe you called it. I actually know what that means now.”

Greg tipped his head back and laughed. “Oh, yeah! God, I was a horny little bastard. Still am, I guess. Anyway, it didn’t take me four years to get what I wanted. That next summer we went to the South of France and hit pay dirt there. All that skin on display, makes everyone a little sex mad.” He glanced over at Mycroft and then adopted a formal tone. “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you all this, with how young you are.”

Mycroft’s jaw dropped. “I’m sixteen! A year older than you were when you went on your little crusade.” Greg giggled, and he knew then that he was being teased. 

“So, what about you, then? Any crusades, successful or otherwise?”

Mycroft huffed. “God, no. I rather think it will be much more difficult for me.” Greg glanced over, eyebrows raised. _Shit_. The bloody beer has given him loose lips. “I-I mean because I live in the country.”

Greg chuckled. “I can relate, though I’d say it was even worse for me. I was going to an all-boy school when I was your age.”

Mycroft snorted. “Hardly. That would actually make things _easier_.” His eyes widened in horror. He’d really put his foot in it this time, there was no way he could explain that one away.

The car went quiet for a minute. Mycroft held his breath, feeling like he was going to choke on the suspense. 

Greg cleared his throat. “I stand by what I said. It’s actually harder. Because you don’t know who is up for it and who isn’t. And if you guess wrong, it’s not like you can say ‘oops’ and try some other bloke. I saw what happened once when some poor tosser tried it. Spent a week in the hospital wing. No way I was going to risk that, I stuck to chasing girls.”

The car was quiet again, a myriad of emotions flooding through Mycroft. “So…Bowie after all.”

Greg smiled softly. “Took me ages to figure it out. I’m impressed you’re already that self-aware.”

Mycroft hummed. “It was easier for me because I’ve never been able to muster any desire for girls. My mum would be watching movies like Charade or To Catch a Thief, and instead of swooning over Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn, I’d be dreaming of kissing Cary Grant.”

Greg laughed. “Cary Grant? You like that old man?”

Mycroft folded his arms. “He’s old now, but in the movies he’s not.”

Greg scoffed. “In Charade he has grey hair!”

Mycroft sniffed. “I happen to like it. He’s very handsome, no matter what colour his hair. And I love how suave he seems to be, but then he does something silly or sweet and it’s very appealing. I also like his suits, but that’s mostly because I love suits and I want to wear them.” 

Greg wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, I suppose he’s a handsome bloke. Truthfully I prefer Jimmy Stewart. In fact, Philadelphia Story is a good example of how confused I felt about men and women for a long time. Katharine Hepburn is a beautiful, sexy woman. I loved her sassiness and confidence, and her curly ginger hair really turned me on. I could see why she’d have three blokes after her. But I was disappointed when she ended up with Grant, cos I liked Stewart. And I’d wonder why I wanted that so much since it seemed like she was meant to be with Grant. And this little voice would tell me that it’s because if it were me, he’s the one I would have chosen. I dunno why I like him so much. I mean, yeah he’s good looking and really tall, but he’s so nerdy and earnest. I think it’s his intense gaze, like he could see right through you and all your bullshit, and still be madly in love with you.” Greg paused and looked at Mycroft, who was gazing at him wide-eyed. “What?”

Mycroft bit his lip. “Sorry, I’m just surprised to hear you like old romantic movies.”

Greg grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I suppose I do. Old movies in general, really, though noir is my favorite. The private eyes in their trench coats. I kinda like the idea of being a detective. I kinda like the idea of doing a detective.” He waggled his eyebrows for a moment.

Mycroft chuckled. “It’s the trench coats. They imbue confidence, which is a desirable trait. Why do you think I wear one?”

Greg steered the car into the driveway of Grandmere’s cottage and put it in park. He turned to look over at Mycroft with one eyebrow raised, his lips quirking into a smile. “Because you want to be desirable?”

Mycroft lifted his chin. “Because I want to appear confident. Though I suppose I wouldn’t mind if it made me…desirable.” He tried to steady his breathing as Greg gave him a considering look, his eyes trailing up and down.

“I think…it hits the mark.” Mycroft felt heat suffuse his entire being.

In the darkness of the car, with only the light over the front door to illuminate, Greg’s eyes were fathomless black pools. Mycroft badly wanted him to lean over and kiss him. “Greg…” Mycroft breathed. It was a moment before he realised that _he_ was the one leaning forward.

Greg blinked and turned back to facing front. “You should get inside, don’t want to miss your curfew.”

Mycroft stared at him. “Curfew? Greg, I’m not a child!”

Greg put his hands on the steering wheel and gripped tightly. “Yes, you are.”

Mycroft balled his fists, desperately trying to think of something that would make Greg see that their age difference was _nothing_. Greg cleared his throat. “I don’t want to keep Lucie waiting.”

Mycroft flinched at the reminder that Greg was planning to take a girl to bed tonight. That he’d made the conscious decision to ‘stick with girls.’ He opened the passenger door and climbed out, not bothering to say goodnight.

*

On Christmas Eve, Mycroft and Sherlock were helping Grandmere decorate Christmas biscuits when the doorbell rang. Mum must have answered it, because they soon heard voices in the hall and then in the kitchen doorway appeared Greg. Mycroft quickly looked down, taking great care to pipe the buttons on the gingerbread man without his shaking hands messing them up.

“Gregory, you are just in time!”

Mycroft heard Greg’s throaty chuckle. “I wouldn’t dare miss out on your biscuits, ma’am.” Mycroft adopted a nonchalant expression and looked up to smile politely. Greg was still wearing the leather jacket, but he had a soft blue jumper on underneath it. There was some gel in his hair, it clearly wasn’t enough to tame the curls that threatened to spill over his forehead. It was obvious he had tamed his look a little for his mum’s sake.

“Sit, sit, and give us a hand.” Grandmere waved her hand at the chair next to Mycroft.

Greg sat and reached for a sugar biscuit. “M’afraid I can’t stay long. I’m meeting someone in a little while. We’re going into Nantes.”

The ache that started when he felt Greg settle in next to him sharpened into disappointment. He tuned out his Grandmere’s delighted inquiries and turned instead to inspect Sherlock’s handiwork.

Sherlock was giving him an odd look, and Mycroft hoped that he hadn’t caught onto the tension at the table. His little brother could be frighteningly intuitive sometimes. 

Fifteen minutes later, Greg was apologizing profusely as he stood and said that he had to go. Grandmere gave him a soft smile. “I understand, my dear. Please do me a favor and deliver those biscuits to your parents.” She nodded towards the kitchen counter where there sat two large containers of biscuits. “Mycroft, help him take those out to the car.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together and nodded, reluctantly. He put on his coat, suddenly feeling embarrassed about wearing it in front of Greg, and grabbed a container. 

On the way out to the car, Mycroft strove for casual as he asked, “So, you really like this girl, eh?”

Greg shrugged. “Well, she’s no Katharine Hepburn.” He opened the boot and carefully placed a container to one side. 

Mycroft set the other one next to it and straightened to face Greg. “True, she doesn’t have the ginger hair.” His pulse quickened when he saw Greg’s eyes dart up to his own ginger hair. He found himself blurting, “Do you feel a connection with her? Or are you still proving something?”

Greg frowned. “Neither, we’re just having a good time. Why do you care?”

Mycroft looked at him sadly. “Because some of the things you’ve told me…there’s a part of you that I believe wants more than anything to lead with your heart, to _feel_ something. But you’re holding back. You keep choosing anything but what you really want.” Throwing caution to the wind, he took a step forward into Greg’s personal space. 

Greg’s expression hardened. He leaned in and put his lips next to Mycroft’s ear. In a biting tone, he whispered, “What I really want to feel right now is _skin_. To bury my cock in someone who doesn’t bloody act like they know a damn thing about me. Who uses their mouth for something more fun than to lecture me.”

He stepped back and headed towards the driver’s side door. Realising that he’d blown it big time, Mycroft hurried after him. “Greg! Damn it, I’m sorry!” He grabbed Greg’s arm, but he jerked it away. “Please wait! You’re one of the few people I’ve _ever_ got along with and I don’t want to ruin it. I want us to be friends. Can we please start over? L-let’s get together on Boxing Day. I’m sure we’ll both be sick of family by then and ready to go blow off steam. I promise not to try and shrink your head.”

Greg opened the car door and climbed in, his hand on the hand to pull it closed. He paused and then sighed. “Yeah, alright. I’ll call you day after tomorrow and we’ll go do something. Have a good Christmas.” 

He slammed the door shut and turned the car on before Mycroft could respond. He was backing out of the driveway by the time Mycroft caught his breath. “Happy Christmas,” he whispered. 

*

Mycroft didn’t see Greg on Boxing Day. He overheard Grandmere telling his parents that Greg and some other ‘youths’ got caught with marijuana in a park in Nantes on Christmas Eve. The police let him off, but then he got into a huge row with his parents on Christmas Day and took off back to London early.

When the Holmes family got back to Sussex later that week, Mycroft took a drive to the nearest record shop to get the new Dead Kennedys album. Under other circumstances, he would have been more amused at the reaction he got when he brought the album to the till. He made sure he was alone in the house when he put the record on, reading the lyrics as he listened to Terminal Preppie. 

He felt his heart freeze as he read about this bleak future that Greg seemed to think he was destined to follow. Why in God’s name was he doing this to himself? Was this what inherited wealth did to people? Turned them into puppets? Except there was more to it in Greg’s case. Most rich kids didn’t even realise they were puppets, but Greg knew. He bloody _knew_ and he was still doing it anyway. Mycroft felt tears on his cheeks and cursed himself for being so maudlin. It might not happen, after all. Greg might realise that he was being stupid and turn away from this doomed self-fulfilling prophecy. But even if he didn’t, even if he does end up like what the song was about, it had nothing to do with Mycroft. They weren’t even friends, just two people whose lives occasionally intersect. 

Mycroft turned off the record player, looking down at the lyrics again. He vowed to himself not to ever let himself fall into a trap of thinking anything in his life was _inevitable_ , or that there was anything worth sacrificing his happiness. He would make his own money, forge his own career path, love who he wants.


	3. 1987 Part I

1987 – 21 and 24

Mycroft suppressed a sigh, knowing that it was only a matter of time before he gave in to his mother’s pleading. “Mummy, I understand your concern, I really do. It’s just that this event is so important for my future career. If I miss it, all the other students will have a leg up on me.”

“Darling, I’m not saying you have to miss it! We’ll drive down separately and then you can leave early to make it back in time for your networking thing.” Mycroft was highly skeptical of his car’s ability to make to down to Nantes and back unscathed. It barely made the trip between Oxford and Sussex.

In the end, though, his mother was right on every point she’d brought up. It _had_ been too long since he’d seen Grandmere. It _was_ an opportunity for he and Sherlock to bond a little, as they had been growing apart since Mycroft left for university. And Mummy was also likely right in her prediction that Sherlock would become a holy terror without his lab equipment and experiments to occupy his genius mind. She would need help to keep him distracted.

“ _Fine_ , Mummy. I will join you in France for Christmas.”

As his mother gushed her profuse thanks, Mycroft tried to quell the feeling of foreboding. He told her a quick goodbye, and then flung himself onto his bunk face down. He was being ridiculous. There was no reason to expect that Greg would be there. He would be 24 by now…an adult. People that age rarely went home for Christmas. 

Mycroft often wondered to himself how this person who he’s only seen a handful of times in his life had such an effect on him. Mycroft didn’t think of him all the time, but it was like he was always there, under the surface, lying dormant. Something would trigger a memory, and he would feel an odd mix of fondness and anxiety. There were also the times Mycroft thought of him in private moments, when he was taking himself in hand, which was the only sexual release he got these days.

Mycroft did not have much in the way of sexual experience with other people. He’d pretty much given up on it after his two unsatisfying encounters. There had been his first kiss, which happened his first year at university. It was a boy in one of his classes that he found quite attractive, and to his amazement it seemed to be reciprocated. One night when they were in Mycroft’s room studying for an exam, the tension between them became more and more charged until finally Tim had leaned over and kissed him. It was a quick peck at first, and they’d looked at each other in surprise that they’d been so bold. Then they kissed again and it was lovely. Mycroft had felt euphoric for the few moments that it lasted. Then Tim launched himself back, a look of panic on his face. Perhaps he’d heard a noise out in the corridor, Mycroft would never know. Tim told him in a harsh whisper that he couldn’t do this, and packed his books and left. They never hung out again. 

It had been right before the holidays, and when Mycroft went home for Christmas that year, all he could think about was Tim’s rejection and Greg’s rejection a few years before. It messed with his head to the point that he was wary about anyone he was attracted to. He forced himself to turn back anytime he found himself going down that path to avoid getting hurt.

By the next year, though, he was feeling quite sexually frustrated. He decided that the only safe way to take care of it was somewhere far away where he was sure he would not be rejected. That was how he ended up on the train to London one weekend, with the goal of finding a gay bar. It ended up being more difficult than he imagined. He finally found a place that didn’t scare him, but he still felt uncomfortable by how much older and worldly the other men were. He felt gauche and naïve. There was also a fair amount of leather, and it reminded him too much of Greg. 

Despite all this, he did end up having a drink with a man who wasn’t too much older and fairly attractive. He looked Mycroft up and down and told him he wanted to mess him up. It gave Mycroft a little thrill. 

They went to the bathroom, where the man gave him a blow job. Mycroft’s orgasm happened quickly, with a sharp sort of relief that left him shaking. He’d then reciprocated, which he enjoyed up until the point when the man pulled out of his mouth and came on his face, laughing as he did so. Mycroft supposed in all fairness the man _had_ said he would mess him up. Gauche and naïve, indeed.

After that, Mycroft decided he was better off taking care of his urges himself. It was for the best, anyway, for two reasons. For one thing, he’d realised afterward that he’d been incredibly stupid and got himself tested immediately. He got a clean bill of health, but it could so easily have been otherwise. For another thing, Mycroft had been coming to terms with the fact that his sexual orientation was not compatible with his career aspirations. It was perhaps prudent if he kept it to himself.

So, nowadays Mycroft stayed away from all thoughts of romance or sex with another person and directed his energy to his studies. On the occasions when he needed to relieve some tension, he did so from the privacy of his bed. More often than not, his thoughts would stray to Greg. Mycroft tried to steer them to other men he’d found attractive over the years or to celebrities such as Cary Grant or the delightful Harrison Ford. But Greg always managed to slide in, and usually in some version of his previous experiences – Greg was the one who kissed him on his dorm bed, except it didn’t stop there. Or it was Greg with whom he exchanged bathroom blow jobs, at that bar in Nantes. Except instead of laughing, he praised Mycroft and told him he was gorgeous in that sexy, gravelly voice of his.

Reflecting on all this, Mycroft very much hoped that Greg would _not_ be at his parents’ home for Christmas. Or that they wouldn’t cross paths. Or that Greg had a girlfriend. No, maybe not that last one. A girlfriend would certainly detain Mycroft from doing something stupid like throwing himself at Greg, but it would hurt to see them together. No, best if he didn’t see Greg at all.

*

It was surreal to be going up the lane to Grandmere’s cottage as a driver and not a passenger. When he passed the Lestrade estate, he felt prickly heat all over at the sight of the lit windows, praying that Greg was not within. It was with a sense of relief when he pulled up to the cottage and saw that his family was already there. 

It was on the late side. He had farther to drive for one thing. Also, he’d had to stop a couple of times in his journey as his car threatened to overheat. He was hoping that this time next year, with a steady salary, he’d be able to trade up. He found the adults in the kitchen, and after a round of hugs they said that Sherlock had already gone off to bed. Mycroft presented Grandmere with a bottle of wine, which she accepted with a wink and then bade him sit down to enjoy the charcuterie. He smiled at the familiar tableau, then felt his heart thud a little harder as he realised he might have already missed out on the Lestrade gossip. Was that a good thing?

In that uncanny way his Grandmere had of reading his mind, she told him that he hadn’t missed anything important. “Your younger brother quite occupied our attention until we finally banished him to bed.” She smiled fondly. “I’d only just begun to share what everyone has been up to these past five years.”

Mycroft caught the flicker of solemnity in her expression and he poured himself a generous glass of wine. It started out well enough. Mr. Lestrade had finally achieved success in his business ventures, and he was quickly adding to the family coffers. The Lestrades became even more social than before, and the past couple of years had begun a tradition of holding a grand party on Christmas Eve. Grandmere said that the Holmes family were invited to attend this year’s fete. 

Then Grandmere went into how Greg had graduated from UCL and got a job in some sort of financial firm, she wasn’t sure what sort of things they do. He seemed to be doing quite well in his job. He rarely came to visit and in fact she hadn’t seen him the last couple of Christmases. Apparently after his trust fund kicked in, he started doing a lot of travelling and spending time with his friends for holidays. 

The solemnity crept into Grandmere’s voice as she shared that Greg’s behaviour when he was with his friends was a source of concern for his parents. His father was furious and his mother was deeply worried. It wasn’t anything uncommon for a rich young man – parties, alcohol, a string of casual partners, and extravagances. 

Also not uncommon was the drugs, but that was much more disturbing. Cocaine may be part and parcel to the jet set lifestyle he’d adopted, but it was clear to the Lestrades that Greg wasn’t handling it well. His father had gone to the firm in charge of his trust fund, and they were plotting ways to getting him straightened out before he permanently damaged his finances, his reputation, and his health. It was implied from Grandmere’s tone that Mr. Lestrade cared about those things in that exact order. 

Mycroft stood up abruptly, unable to hear anymore. Without saying a word, he poured another glass of wine and went over to the sitting room, lowering himself down in front of the fireplace. He needed the blazing warmth to battle the chill in his heart. So, it had happened after all. Greg had thrown himself into the life that was expected by his father and generations before, and he was coping with it through self-destructive behaviour. 

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut and whispered to himself in a mantra, “Why do you care, why do you care, why do you care!” He needed to stop this. Caring was not an advantage. Here he was tearing his heart apart over a man he barely knew, dreading the possibility of seeing him. Although, from what Grandmere said, that wasn’t going to happen. Greg was likely getting high on a yacht in the Caribbean or something. Mycroft just needed to stop thinking about him and get on with the holiday. Repair his relationship with his brother, dote on his grandmere, and then get back to Oxford so he could work on setting his career in motion. 

*

The next couple of days were uneventful. Mycroft took Sherlock ice skating, which brought up bittersweet memories of a horny 15-year-old Greg trying to chat up all the girls while his 12-year-old self had looked on in befuddlement. Mycroft found himself wondering if Sherlock would be doing the same thing two years from now. He was too absorbed in his studies to even make friends, much less show romantic interest in anyone. Sherlock was so drawn into himself that Mycroft couldn’t even begin to guess where his interest lay, gender-wise. 

The reverse couldn’t be said to be true – at the end of the summer, Sherlock declared that he’d figured out Mycroft was gay, smugly reciting the reasons for his deduction. Chief among them were his observations that Mycroft ignored the advances of several girls while they were at Brighton, while at the same time his gaze lingered on various shirtless young men. 

Fortunately, Sherlock didn’t judge him and said he wouldn’t tell anyone. He thought homophobia was illogical and didn’t understand why anyone would care what someone got up to in their own bedroom. He certainly didn’t care who Mycroft liked. He’d only made the observation because he found that he enjoyed figuring people out. It was a trait they shared.

The evening of Christmas Eve came all too soon. Even though Greg wouldn’t be there, it would still feel odd going into the Lestrade home. But his family was looking forward to it, even Sherlock. He’d always been curious about what it was like inside. Mycroft remembered that feeling quite well.

The one thing that Mycroft took pleasure in was the opportunity to wear his suit. He always loved putting it on, but he usually only did so for networking events at Oxford. 

When the Holmes family arrived inside the Lestrade estate, Mycroft suppressed the urge to gape. He supposed it was meant to mimic ice and snow with everything in white and silver and glitter everywhere. It came off as garish. The Lestrades came to greet them. Greg’s mother smiled widely, but it was obvious to Mycroft that she was deeply unhappy. The same could be said for Mr. Lestrade, though his unhappiness manifested itself in aggressiveness. Mycroft had to forcibly conceal his loathing for the man.

Mycroft made his escape as soon as he could, looking around for a place where he could observe and go unobserved until it was time to leave. Seeing a corner that looked promising, he filled a plate with some food (people eating were often seen as harmless), grabbed a glass of champagne, and headed over to his corner to nibble quietly and listen to Christmas music.

At some point far into the future, Mycroft might think it amusingly apropos that he spotted Greg across the room right as Bing Crosby’s I’ll Be Home For Christmas started playing. At this point in time, however, it was not even remotely funny. Why had he decided to come home _this_ Christmas? Could he not have waited another year? And dear god, why did he have to look so devastatingly handsome?

His hair was slightly longer, and a good faith effort was made to slick it back, but a few spiky tendrils escaped onto his forehead. And he was wearing a suit, for heaven’s sake. As he made his way closer in the room, Mycroft could see that he had a tiny gold hoop in his ear. His tie was a pale pink paisley. The outfit was a bit flashy for Mycroft’s taste, but it fit with Greg’s chosen career path. Mycroft felt breathless with how badly he wanted to take him someplace private to do all manner of filthy things with him. 

Mycroft closed his eyes in an attempt to take back control of his emotions. There was nothing for it, he would have to make his escape, and soon. The route Greg seemed to be making around the room would eventually pass Mycroft’s current location.

He finally opened his eyes, and flinched in surprise when he saw that Greg was standing right in front of him, his eyes glittering in amusement. He had to have spotted Mycroft and came straight to him. “Having a bit of a nap? Don’t blame you, this party’s a real snooze.”

Mycroft’s heart sank at the reminder that by Greg’s usual standards, it must be very boring indeed. He mustered a smile. “Hello, Greg. Happy Christmas.”

Greg’s face curved into a smile, and Mycroft’s heart lurched anew. “Happy Christmas to you, too, Mycroft. You’ve…ah…grown a bit.” It was true. Now that they were standing close, it was clear that Mycroft was now a couple inches taller. 

Mycroft huffed out a laugh. “I think I recall telling you that I would.”

Greg nodded slowly, then tilted his head. “Yeah, you did. Looks good on you, especially with the suit. It’s well-tailored, makes your legs look like they go on for days.”

Mycroft blushed. “I paid quite a bit to make sure it fit properly, and it was worth it. It’s my favorite thing I own. I’m saving up for another one.” He cleared his throat, embarrassed at having said something so gauche. “I must compliment you on _your_ suit. Ralph Lauren, isn’t it?”

Greg straightened his jacket. “Yep. Got loads of em.” He looked Mycroft up and down. “I could buy you a suit, if you like. Call it a Christmas present.”

Mycroft blinked several times, not knowing how to take this about face from Greg. Five years ago he’d been pushing Mycroft away and now he was coming on strong. “I…uh…don’t think that would be appropriate.”

Greg chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose it wouldn’t be. Sorry, you’re one of the very few people who know the truth about me, and I guess I feel like I can be myself with you.”

Mycroft smiled wanly. “I understand. It can be…isolating.”

Greg’s gaze sharpened. “More so for you, I imagine. Since you don’t like women. D’you ever meet anyone to…you know?”

Mycroft looked down at his plate. “I have. Not recently, though. I’m afraid of it getting out…affecting my future career.”

Greg nodded sympathetically. “I get that completely. It’s why I haven’t been with a bloke at all. Can’t risk it. Not because of my career, necessarily. I’ve met a couple of men who were gay and no one cared because they were loaded. But if my father ever found out…he has way too much influence over the firm that manages my trust fund.” 

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “You’re saying that if your colleagues found out that you like men, they wouldn’t care as long as you had enough money?”

Greg shrugged one shoulder. “You know that American saying… ‘Money talks and bullshit walks.’ It’s absolutely true. I get away with loads of stuff as long as I’m contributing to the bottom line. I suppose if there’s one lousy perk to my job, that would be it. Otherwise I can’t bloody stand it. I don’t feel like I’m accomplishing anything except filling the coffers. The people I work with and work for, Christ they’re all bloody awful. Completely soulless, don’t care about anything except what’s in it for them.” Greg took a canapé off Mycroft’s plate and stuffed it in his mouth, and it was odd how such a simple little act seemed so intimate. 

Mycroft spoke softly. “I’m sorry to hear that. I had hoped…that your life wouldn’t turn out like the song.” Greg gave him a questioning look. “Terminal Preppie, I believe it was called.”

Greg winced, as if being reminded of something that he had buried. “Ah. That’s me, alright. But I suppose I gotta do I do what I got to do, you know?” He took another canapé.

Mycroft’s tone was hesitant. “What… _do_ …you do?”

Greg’s expression soured. “You mean to cope?” Mycroft nodded. “Why do I feel like you already know the answer to that?” His eyes skated around the room, his body thrumming in agitation. “I drink a lot. Sometimes cocaine. Find a nice pair of tits to use as a pillow when I inevitably crash. It’s the standard issue survival kit for all corporate flunkies.”

Mycroft banished the image of Greg passed out in the arms of some stranger who didn’t give a toss for him. He levelled a skeptical look at Greg. “ _Sometimes_ cocaine?”

Greg lifted his chin. “Look at me, eh? Straight in the eye. I’m _not_ high right now. Not even in withdrawal.” He stepped closer in an echo of that long ago night when he’d dared Mycroft to question his ability to drive.

It was true enough. Greg wasn’t high. And he exhibited none of the tell-tale signs of withdrawal. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You knew your parents were worried. That your father was on the verge of taking action regarding your trust fund. This is your way of making them think you’re in control of yourself.”

Greg sniffed. “I _am_ in control of myself.”

Mycroft gave him an incredulous look. “There is no such thing as being in control when it comes to cocaine. What if you overdose? Or do something stupid while high? You could fall off a yacht and drown! Is this really how you want to live the rest of your life? Balancing on the edge of a knife?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I know what I’m doing! And no, this isn’t for the rest of my life. Just until I turn 30. At that point, full control of the trust fund gets turned over to me. No more watchdogs, no restrictions.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Oh, just another six years, no problem. You certainly won’t be hopelessly addicted after all that time!”

Greg sighed. “Myc, come on, it’s not as bad as you make it out to be. If I need to, I’ll dry out in some rehab clinic somewhere. Hopefully one that’s more like a resort than a prison.”

Mycroft choked out, “It’s that easy, is it? Did one of your soulless friends sell you that story?”

Greg looked away. “It’s not like I have any other kind. The closest I’ve ever come to having someone genuine in my life is…you. I think that’s why I spill my guts to you whenever I see you, and let you lecture me like you’re my dad. Except you’re nothing like him.” 

Mycroft made a cutting gesture. “You’re damn right I’m not. He wants you to follow in his footsteps, I’m telling you to follow your dreams. Forget the trust fund, Greg. Do what you really want in life. I promise you don’t need the money. I know I don’t. It’s not always easy, but I’ve got a bright future ahead of me. One that I built for myself.”

Greg gave him a soft smile. “I’m not surprised. You’re the most brilliant person I know. What are you majoring in?”

Mycroft picked at one of the canapes on his plate. “Political science. I don’t want to be a politician, though. They’re always just front men with enough charisma to influence the public. I want to be the one behind the scenes influencing the politician.”

Greg grinned. “I think you could run the whole country if you put your mind to it.”

Mycroft sniffed. “I’m certainly motivated.”

Greg chuckled for a moment, then his smile faded. “I don’t think it’s motivation I Iack. It’s the fact that I don’t have dreams to chase. If I were to quit my job tomorrow and tell the trustees and my father to go screw themselves, I wouldn’t have the first clue what to do with all that newfound freedom.”

Mycroft scowled. “I really find that hard to believe. What is the plan for when you turn 30?”

Greg shrugged. “I dunno. I guess part of me is worried I won’t get the money, so I’m too afraid to plan out any farther.”

Mycroft sighed. “Could you do me a favor and try? This would be a good time to do it, when you’re away from all the trappings of your lifestyle. Pretend like you’re sitting on Father Christmas’s lap…” Greg waggled his eyebrows and Mycroft huffed out a laugh, “…and imagine what you would tell him that you wanted most for Christmas.”

Greg laughed shakily. “You really are something, Mycroft. Yeah, I’ll do it.” 

“Gregory?” They both turned to see Mrs. Lestrade staring in astonishment at him.

Greg gave her a smile that lit up his face. Mycroft could see that it was genuine, and he was relieved that at least one parent could accomplish it. “Mum! Happy Christmas!”

As Greg’s mother gushed over him, Mycroft sidled away and went off in search of an empty room to gather himself. He needed time to process everything that happened. Greg looking so gorgeous Mycroft had to fight off his arousal. Greg flirting with him! Finding out the horrible truth that he had indeed gone down the predicted path. Greg’s self-delusion that he was handling things. Mycroft had almost been undone by his vulnerability and willingness to share his innermost thoughts with him, even if it had resulted in his compulsion to preach at him.

Mycroft was startled when the door to the drawing room opened and Sherlock appeared. With a smirk on his face, he declared, “I knew you’d be here! I saw you talking to Greg Lestrade earlier. Based on your expression, which is the same one you use when lecturing me, I figured you’d probably seek out somewhere to calm down. When Mummy asked me to find you, it was just a matter of deducing which room was the likeliest. This was my first choice, and I was right.”

Mycroft pinched his nose with his fingers. “And now that you’ve found me?”

“Mummy says we’re leaving, though you’re welcome to stay if you like. I told her you’d be coming with us, though I didn’t say why. Hurry up. Grandmere promised eggnog once we got back to the cottage.”

Mycroft took a deep breath. Sherlock was, of course, quite correct. He’d been wanting to leave as soon as he got here, and now that Greg was here, it was imperative. He couldn’t spend another moment with this man who had such a profound effect on him. “Eggnog… Yes, with a splash or two of brandy. Sounds perfect. Let’s go.”


	4. 1987 Part II

1987 continued

Mycroft immersed himself in family time, spending as much time with Sherlock as possible over the next couple of days. On Boxing Day, Sherlock declared that he’d had enough of being cooped up and demanded to go to the ice rink. Their parents decided to make an evening of it, having dinner in Nantes as well. Everyone went except Mycroft, who had to pack for his trip the next day. He had to leave obscenely early in order to make it back to Oxford in time for the networking event.

After everyone left, Mycroft went back to the tiny bedroom off the kitchen that was his whenever they came to visit. Fortunately, there were enough rooms in the cottage that he’d never had to share with his brother. A few minutes into his packing, he heard the front door open and a voice saying, “Hullo?”

Thinking it was his father having forgotten something, Mycroft stuck his head out the door to his room and yelled, “Back here! What’d you forget?” He chuckled to himself and continued his packing. His father was a dear, but the most absent-minded person he knew. Usually Mummy kept him organised, but was not always successful.

“Mycroft.” He started at the sudden proximity of a voice that was decidedly not his father. Mycroft looked up, and there was Greg standing in the doorway. 

“Greg! Oh. What are you doing here?”

Greg came a little further inside, and it felt like the room shrank exponentially. “Your Grandmere said she had some leftover Christmas biscuits for me. Told me to stop by.”

Mycroft wondered if that had been deliberate. “She’s not here. Everyone’s out tonight. Sherlock had cabin fever.”

Greg’s eyes strayed to the open suitcase. “Where are you going?”

Mycroft rubbed the back of his neck. “I have a thing back at Oxford tomorrow night. I’m leaving quite early so I wanted to get this done ahead of time.”

Greg looked chagrined. “I’m sorry to hear that. I was rather hoping…I wanted to spend some time with you. I thought you’d be here longer since term wouldn’t be starting for a couple weeks.”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh to hide his own disappointment. “You mean all my lectures didn’t put you off?”

Greg chuckled. “I know it makes no sense. Half the time I want to tell you to piss off. But you’re just not like anyone I know. Everyone either judges me or tells me what I want to hear. You’re honest, direct, and you take me as I am even if you don’t approve. And I think you genuinely care what happens to me.”

“I do care,” Mycroft said softly. 

Greg bit his lip. D’you mind if I sit? There’s more I want to say.”

Mycroft blinked. “Of course.” He moved the suitcase over to the dresser, and Greg took off his coat, draping it on the nightstand. They both sat down on the bed. Mycroft realised immediately that they should have gone into the kitchen and had their discussion there. He felt goosebumps prickle up his arm as the bed sagged slightly and their shoulders brushed. 

“Tell me something, Mycroft. When you graduate, do you know yet where you’ll end up?”

He raised his eyebrows at the unexpected question. “As it happens, I do have a job lined up. The mixer tomorrow night might put me in a more prestigious position if I charm the right people. But regardless, I am all set to move to London next summer.”

Greg smiled brightly. “That’s wonderful. Perfect! The company I work for is based out of London. I travel a lot, but I have a flat there. See, I’ve been thinking about what you said, that I should figure out what I really want. I haven’t got much of anywhere with it in terms of what I want to do, but I’ve still got six years to come up with something. In the meantime, I thought of something that might make it more bearable: _You_.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “Me?”

Greg shifted so he was more facing Mycroft. “I know we haven’t seen much of each other over the years, but I feel like every moment I’ve spent with you has been special. Meaningful. Everything you’ve ever said to me has stayed with me. I feel like I don’t want to wait another four or five years before I see you again. If we’re both going to be in London, we can see each other all the time.”

Mycroft’s mouth dropped open, unable to think of what to say. On the one hand, the idea of seeing Greg more often was thrilling. On the other hand, it could spell disaster. How much greater could Greg affect his equilibrium if they had more frequent contact? “I don’t know what to say, Greg. I’ve honestly never had anyone seek out my friendship. Most of my interactions with classmates are in study groups.”

Greg looked at him intently. “I’m not just offering friendship. I want…” He licked his lips and took a deep breath. He reached out a hand and gently touched the tips of his fingers to the back of Mycroft’s hand, which was curled into a loose fist. “I want to know what it’s like to be with someone that…that I have a connection with.” 

Mycroft felt shivery when Greg’s fingers coaxed his hand into uncurling, and then began tracing a pattern over his palm. Greg continued, softly, “I dunno if you remember what you said to me almost a decade ago, you were just a kid at the time. You told me that I lead with my heart, except when it came to those girls I was chasing. You called me out again the next time you were here, knowing I didn’t feel a damn thing for that girl I was seeing.”

“Lucie,” Mycroft breathed in a strained voice.

Greg’s lips curved up. “You remember her name. Were you jealous?”

“Immensely,” Mycroft gritted. “I wanted you to be with me, instead. Take _me_ to bed.”

Greg chuckled. “Yeah, I could tell. It was the whole reason I threw myself at her. You may have looked of age with your trench coat and wise words, but you were only bloody sixteen. There was no way I was going to touch you.”

Mycroft gave him a sheepish look. “God, you’re right. I thought I was mature enough, but it was as you said – I was a child.”

Greg’s smile widened. “See, I am capable of making at least one good decision.” He grasped Mycroft’s hand in his and lifted it, running his lips softly over the knuckles, and Mycroft felt his heart thundering in his chest. “You’re not a child anymore, Mycroft. You are…very much a man, and I find myself aching in ways I’ve never felt before. I want to do things to you, feel things with you, know what it’s like when it means something more than just sex.”

Mycroft felt dizzy. He barely registered what Greg was saying, because he was now resting his other hand on Mycroft’s thigh, rubbing up and down slightly. “Greg… _fuck_.”

Greg’s eyes started to smolder at his profanity, He tilted Mycroft’s hand and pressed his lips against the inside of his wrist. He kissed up Mycroft’s bare forearm until he got to the crook of his elbow, where he hit the barrier of his rolled-up sleeve. He leaned in, tilting his head up to look into Mycroft’s eyes. “Please, Myc. Please let me kiss you.”

Mycroft felt Greg’s hand leave his thigh, and then the sensation of it curling around the back of his neck, squeezing slightly. Mycroft gave a slight nod, and then Greg was tugging his head down. As their lips met, Mycroft melted into him. Greg’s hand slid from his neck to the side of his face, cupping his cheek as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. Mycroft felt overcome just by the gentle press of their lips together. When he felt Greg’s tongue sliding against his lower lip, he shuddered at the sensation. Mycroft opened up and the kiss deepened further, with Greg licking into his mouth. 

Mycroft’s last kiss had also been on a bed, but this was where the similarities ended. He’d enjoyed the kiss for sure, but it was nothing compared to this. He felt like every nerve ending was on fire, and he was euphoric. Greg was an incredible kisser, and though part of his mind recalled with sourness that he had plenty of experience, he reminded himself that this was Greg’s first _meaningful_ kiss. 

Mycroft inhaled sharply when he felt Greg’s hand on his waist, kneading softly through the thin cotton of his button-down shirt. Mycroft could tell that Greg wanted to be doing more with his hands, and all he could think about was all the times he fantasised about swapping out Greg for Tim on his dorm bed.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg’s waist, pulling them flush against each other and leaning back slightly. Greg took the hint and leaned with him until they were reclining on the bed and he was draped on top of Mycroft. 

Greg groaned his approval of this shift, and he threaded his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, tugging slightly to tilt his head back. He began kissing Mycroft’s neck, nuzzling his ear, licking a spot behind his ear lobe that made him shiver and let out a whimper. 

Greg’s hands explored Mycroft’s torso, and he could feel the heat of each digit through the fabric of his shirt as he traced up his abdomen, skimmed over his ribcage, and ran his thumb over his nipple. When this earned a gasp from Mycroft, Greg began working at the buttons of his shirt, impatiently getting a few open before tucking his hand inside to caress the bare flesh. 

Mycroft thrilled at the weight of him, and soon he could feel Greg’s erection pressed into the hollow of his hip. Mycroft lifted one leg, curving it over Greg’s arse, tilting his hips to bring their cocks together. Greg broke their kiss to swear profusely. “Christ! Oh god, Mycroft, that feels fuckin fantastic.” He tilted his own hips and soon they were frotting against each other. 

They both moaned as the friction made their arousal spike, panting heavily as their hips thrust against each other. Mycroft was clutching at Greg’s shoulders and Greg had a hand on Mycroft’s arse, squeezing and tugging as he thrust harder. 

It wasn’t enough, though. Mycroft practically felt the blood pounding through his veins, his cock throbbing with need, but there was too much fabric, especially from the thick denim of Greg’s jeans. He tore his mouth away from Greg’s. “Wait…I have an idea.” Greg groaned in frustration as he reluctantly stopped. Mycroft fumbled with the button of Greg’s jeans, popping it open and getting the zipper down, then slipping his hand inside to knead against Greg’s erection through the fabric of his pants. Greg sucked in a breath and then let it out, growling, “Yes! God, yes, yes, yes. Myc, you’re brilliant.” He was quick to return the favor, fumbling with the front of Mycroft’s trousers. 

Mycroft shoved down Greg’s underwear, freeing his cock. He grasped it, stroking up and down, revelling in the whine that emitted from Greg’s lips. Soon he himself was making a needy noise as Greg got hold of his cock. Greg looked down at it in wonder for a moment, then looked up at Mycroft, his eyes shining. “This is it, Myc. My first time with a bloke. I think I always knew it would be you.” He gave him a tender kiss. 

They continued to stroke each other gently for a little while, and when Mycroft once again felt the urgency for something _more_ , he shifted until their cocks were aligned, then licked the palm of his hand several time and wrapped it around the two of them together.

Greg began whispering profanities, his expression completely wrecked as he thrust into Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft let out breathy moans as his orgasm began to build. Unlike his previous experience, where it came on suddenly, this time it felt like an ascension, and the higher it climbed the more overwhelmed he was. He felt Greg shudder against him, moaning his name as he came all over his hand, and suddenly Mycroft was there at the peak, toppling over as his cock pulsed out liquid. He breathed out Greg’s name, and Greg tangled his fingers in Mycroft’s hair and pulled him in for a breathless kiss.

Mycroft pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and began wiping their comingled fluids from his hand while Greg lay next to him nuzzling into his hair right above his ear. He was dazed, barely able to believe that this just happened. It had been even better than he imagined. Certainly, light years above his last sexual experience. This must have been what Greg meant about feeling what it was like when you actually cared for someone. The intimacy of the moment made him want to weep. He tossed the handkerchief to the ground and curled into Greg’s side.

They lay like that for a while, with Greg casually stroking his fingers up and down Mycroft’s arm. At the sound of a noise outside, Mycroft flinched hard and sat up with a gasp. All at once he was reminded of Tim, and the way he had bolted. Now Mycroft understood. “ _Fuck_ , what the hell were we thinking? My family could have come home at any time and caught us.”

Greg gave an unconcerned laugh. “Aren’t they meant to be gone hours?”

“Meant to be, yes, but things happen. Plans change. Sherlock could have twisted his ankle at the ice rink and they decided to come home early. They could have walked right in on us!”

Mycroft ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands in agitation. Greg sighed and put his hand on Mycroft’s back. “I guess you’re right, but it didn’t happen.” He tugged at Mycroft’s arm. “Come on and cuddle some more. We’ll hear them as they pull in and we’ll right ourselves in no time.”

But Mycroft couldn’t ease the panic swelling within him. He looked at his handkerchief lying on the floor. “Christ almighty, I’ll need to get tested. I’m so bloody stupid.” He could only hope Greg was clean.

Greg scowled. “Tested for what?”

Mycroft was not reassured that he didn’t know what he meant. “Venereal disease,” he ground out.

Greg’s jaw dropped open. “Oi! I don’t have VD!”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Are you one of those people who think that you’re fine because you’re asymptomatic?”

Greg’s eyes widened. “What are you talking about? I always understood it that when you get the symptoms, you go and get treated.”

Mycroft honestly couldn’t be mad at him. So many people were ignorant. Especially heterosexuals who enjoyed fucking with impunity. “It’s more complicated than that. I recommend getting yourself tested by a doctor who knows what they’re doing, and listening to what they have to say. Especially if you’re going to continue your...lifestyle.”

Greg’s eyes seemed to widen even further. “If you mean…do I plan to keep sleeping around, of course not! Now that I have you...look I hate the idea I might have given you something. We’ll go get tested together.”

Mycroft gave him a horrified look. “Are you insane? We might as well put a neon sign above our heads declaring us to be in a relationship.”

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right, right, of course. We have to be careful. Okay, so get tested separately, and then figure out the best way to see each other without anyone suspecting.”

Mycroft felt his stomach plummet. He had to face reality. “Greg…the best way not to get caught is to not do… _this_ …at all.”

Greg stared at him. “What do you mean?”

Mycroft grimaced, not relishing having to spell it out. “I mean we can’t…be together in any way. It’s too risky. Look at what happened the very first time we got together – we were _utterly_ reckless. And when you factor in…” he closed his eyes, “…the drug use. I can’t rely on your ability to keep it a secret if you’re high.”

Greg winced. “I’ll go into rehab. I’ll get clean and then we’ll be fine. I don’t need cocaine if I have you.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “Do you realise what you’re even saying? That you’ll substitute a secret relationship with me in lieu of addictive drugs? This isn’t healthy, Greg.”

Greg looked at him with pleading eyes. “Mycroft, please. I just want to be with you, however I can. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Mycroft felt a tear spill out onto his cheek. “I don’t think that’s possible, Greg. The timing is all wrong. Right now we’re both strongly beholden to others for our livelihood. Once you obtain your trust fund, and…”

“Fuck the trust fund,” Greg spit. Mycroft was overwhelmed. “I mean it, Mycroft.”

Mycroft swallowed back a sob. “That means a lot to me, but you are in a state of post-coital bliss and I do not know if I can trust the sentiment.”

Greg’s lips tightened. “It’s _me_ you don’t trust, isn’t it? That’s what it boils down to.”

Mycroft couldn’t help it, he took Greg’s hand and squeezed it hard. “Greg, I don’t trust myself, either. You weren’t the only one moaning in ecstasy. I lose all sense of discretion in your presence. That’s why we can’t do this. As I was going to say earlier, my future career depends entirely on my ability to imitate Teflon. _Nothing_ can stick to me. Perhaps someday when I’ve got enough influence, I’ll be able to do whatever I want like the rich men you were telling me about. But for now, everything about me has to be flawless.”

Greg’s shoulders slumped. “And that means no drug addict boyfriends.”

Mycroft winced. “Greg…”

Greg shook his head. “No, I’m a mess. Why would you want to saddle yourself with someone whose fucked up pretty much every aspect of their life? Except this. I can’t regret having done this with you. 

Mycroft’s breath hitched. “As inadvisable as this was, I can’t regret it either. It was…” he inhaled sharply in an attempt to ward off the encroaching flood of tears, “…the loveliest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Greg shifted forward and planted a tender kiss on Mycroft’s lips. “Why did I have to go and have feelings for someone like you?”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “A closeted gay man?”

Greg shook his head. “A pragmatist.”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh that soon turned into an uncontrolled giggle. Taking a steadying breath, he said, “the same reason I’m drawn to someone who leads with his heart. We’re masochists.”

They lay in silence for a bit, then Greg spoke again, his voice choked with emotion. “You ever heard of that song, Spirit of Christmas by Ray Charles?” Mycroft nodded. “It’s my favorite, but don’t hear it on the radio much. There’s a line that always gets to me. Sometimes I think of you when I hear it, since we only ever see each other at Christmas.” He started singing softly. “Why can’t it remain…all through the year…each day the same…” He stopped. “I wish it could be like that for us.”

They lay together in silence for a few more minutes, then Mycroft eased out of Greg’s arms and stood up. Greg slowly stood as well and they both concentrated on straightening up their clothes. Mycroft went into the kitchen and washed his hands at the sink. He saw the container of biscuits on the counter, and picked it up, handing it to Greg. They walked to the front door. 

As Mycroft was reaching for the handle, Greg said in a tight voice, “I would have given it all up for you.”

Mycroft felt like utter shit. He was hurting Greg, and breaking his own vow made years ago never to sacrifice his happiness. “I know, Greg. I wish I could say the same. But my future career…working towards this is what has given my life purpose, and I can’t bring myself to give it up.” He gave Greg a pleading look. “And the fact that I can’t do this for you is all the more reason why we don’t belong together. You deserve someone who would be willing to take that chance.”

Greg smiled bitterly. “I wish I could believe that someone would ever do that for me. I’ve yet to see it. Don’t think it will ever happen. But you know, it’s a good lesson. I can’t expect others to make me a priority. I have to prioritise myself.” Mycroft winced, because that was the hard lesson he had learnt himself, and the reason why he wasn’t going to give up his career. 

He opened the front door, shivering at the gust of wind that blew in. Greg gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, and without a word he went out into the frigid night. Mycroft watched him go, and wondered if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.


	5. 1997

1997 – 31 and 34

Mycroft stared out the window of his car at the sign affixed above the door of the facility. ‘The Trust Centre’ it was called. The name was certainly evocative, given it was a rehab clinic for addicts. Who exactly was placing trust in whom? Were families trusting the staff to help their loved one? Was the staff trusting their patients to do the work of getting better? Perhaps both. 

He wanted to trust these people, but that was impossible given he knew nothing about them. He hadn’t been consulted on this course of action, merely told yesterday by his parents that his brother had checked in the day after Christmas. That was three days ago. 

Mycroft still didn’t know why they didn’t talk it over with him first. He didn’t even know how they could afford such a place. His eyes raked over the building’s façade. It looked hideously expensive. They’d mumbled something about discounted fees in special circumstances. Mycroft considered Sherlock to be special - a unique combination of brilliance and heart - but he doubted that was what they meant.

Mycroft inhaled deeply and let it out in a sigh. “Is it new year yet?” he murmured. He always felt anxious for Christmas to be over. It had certain associations that he didn’t like to dwell on. Especially _here_. In France. His grandmere’s cottage just a few miles away. 

Mycroft supposed he would have to go by there once he’d finished visiting Sherlock. He dreaded it. He’s only been there twice in the past decade and both times he visited during the summer, when everything looked completely different. Whenever he was there, he begged Grandmere not to mention _them_. He wanted to hear no gossip. No updates about their lives. 

Mycroft took another deep breath. Better get on with it. He got out of the car and marched up to the entrance. He felt a tremor go through him as he grasped the handle to pull open the door. Please, _please_ let this place be just what his brother needs. 

He walked inside, looking around the atrium-like reception area. Everything in here looked fairly new. This facility must have been built two or three years ago. He walked up to the intake counter. “My name is Mycroft Holmes, I’m here to see my brother, Sherlock.”

The receptionist nodded. “I will need to see your identification. One moment.” She picked up a telephone and pressed a button. After a pause, he heard her say softly, “You said to alert you if anyone came to visit Mr. Holmes. Yes…yes, it is his brother. I will tell him.” She hung up the phone and glanced at the identification he held up. “The owner will be out to see you in a moment, if you care to have a seat.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Did you say the owner?”

She smiled and gave him a short nod. “If you will have a seat.” She nodded towards a row of chairs.

Mycroft reluctantly went over and sat down, bewildered and uneasy by this turn of events. Why would the owner be monitoring who came to see Sherlock? And how had he or she known that Mycroft would show up? Had their parents warned the owner about him? Had they implied he would cause problems? 

Mycroft had no desire to interfere with Sherlock’s care, he was only upset that he had not been given the opportunity to research the place. It would be irresponsible to stick Sherlock in just any facility without vetting it first. It was just as well he was about to meet with the owner, because he had many questions and who better to answer them.

He felt a headache forming when the song All I Want For Christmas Is You began piping into the reception area. Ever since the song came out a few years ago, every time he heard it, he thought of Greg. It was all so maudlin. Pathetic that he was unable to rid himself of thoughts of Greg even after so many years.

The tension in his shoulders eased when the song ended and something by Mannheim Steamroller came on. It was still Christmas music, which was irritating because Christmas was _over_ , but at least it was instrumental. No sentimental lyrics to distress him.

“Sorry I kept you waiting, there was a call I couldn’t put off.” The tension was back in Mycroft’s shoulders as the voice washed over him, sounding exactly like Greg. God almighty, would he never be rid of this ghost? 

He looked up at the clinic owner and froze at the sight of him. For a second he thought he was hallucinating. But it couldn’t be his imagination because he looked so different. All traces of punk were completely gone, he was wearing a conservative suit – not Ralph Lauren, but well-made – and his hair was short and combed into a soft wave. But what really shook him were the eyes. Gone was the hard edge of youth, instead there was nothing but warmth and compassion and something else undefinable. Mycroft sucked in his breath he realised this was all too real. In a stunned voice, he whispered, “Greg?”

Greg’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Did…did your parents not tell you I was the owner?” Mycroft shook his head as he stood up. “Not even Grandmere?”

In a strained voice, Mycroft replied, “I haven’t been to see her yet, I came straight here to see Sherlock.”

Greg let out an exasperated huff. “Right. Sorry you had to find out this way. Look, we have a lot to talk about regarding Sherlock’s care…and other things. Do you want to talk first or see Sherlock first?”

Mycroft’s brain was swirling. “Talk first. I don’t want my head filled with distracting questions when I see my brother.”

Greg nodded. “Probably best. There’s a coffee shop down this way, less formal than my office. Plus, I could do with a cup.”

He led the way down a hall, and Mycroft inwardly groaned at the way his trousers hugged his arse. He was torn between the desire to reach his hand out and grab ahold or ask him who his tailor was.

When Greg had fetched his coffee and Mycroft a cup of tea, they went over to a corner table and sat down. “So, clearly you didn’t know I was the owner. How much _do_ you know about the past ten years?”

“Nothing at all. I…” Mycroft blushed as he looked down at his tea. “…whenever I visit Grandmere, I asked her not to share.”

Greg smiled softly. “I made a similar request when I moved here three years ago. I still go see her for the Christmas biscuits, but we don’t talk about you.”

Mycroft swallowed. “Well, one thing is clear…you finally figured out what you wanted to do with your life.”

Greg’s smile widened. “I did indeed. It happened about seven years ago. I ran into a former colleague who used to go to all the same parties I did, but then he disappeared. I never knew what happened to him, and when we met up again he was completely different. No longer on drugs, no longer self-destructing. He was happier than he’d ever been in his life. Told me about a clinic in Sweden that worked miracles.”

He took a sip of coffee and paused for a while. “After…after what happened between us, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. Part of me wanted to get clean just to prove that I could do it. Part of me just wanted to go back to self-medicating. I ended up…ah…doing the latter. But when Patrick told me about the Swedish clinic, something in me broke down. I couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted that same joy and contentment I saw shining from his eyes. So, I quit my job and checked into the clinic.” 

Mycroft’s grip on his tea tightened at hearing that Greg had suffered another few years before he finally got help.

Greg took another sip of coffee and went on. “Beacon Centre was everything Patrick said it was. Nothing like what I’d heard about other clinics. There always seemed to be two types of rehab. They were either like resorts where no real work on breaking the addiction is done, or they were like prisons that basically traumatised people into complying with the programme so they could get out of the place.”

He smiled fondly. “Beacon was different. The man who developed the programme, Doctor Nilsson, has a real passion for helping people. I talked with him often when I was there. Once I completed the programme, I went to him and offered my financial services. He hired me, and I worked for the clinic for several years. The longer I was there, the more profoundly I felt the desire to see more centres like this. It was Nilsson’s dream as well, but he had trouble getting backers. No one wants to invest in addicts. I knew the trustees wouldn’t let me use the trust fund money, so I waited patiently until I finally turned 30 and it reverted to me completely.”

Greg’s smile was rueful. “My father wasn’t pleased that I had chucked my lucrative career to go work for a rehab clinic, and I don’t think he wanted me to have the money. But there was no disputing that I was an upstanding citizen by that point, so the trustees turned it over. I turned right around and put most of it in another trust I set up to get this place built with Dr. Nilsson’s help.”

Mycroft huffed out a laugh. “Oh my. _That’s_ why it’s called Trust Centre.”

Greg grinned. “It is indeed. Well, part of the reason. It’s also about me wanting to earn the trust of people I’ve failed over the years with my addiction. Of course, I don’t tell clients that. They get told it’s about the relationship of trust between patient and provider and families.”

Mycroft swallowed hard. “Greg…I’m so, _so_ glad that your life has been turned around. You spent so many years being miserable.”

Greg gave him a wry smile. “It all started when my grandfather died and we inherited his money and his estate. It was why I wanted the centre to be built here. Phoenix rising from the ashes and all that. In fact, there’s a stylised phoenix in the centre’s logo.” 

Mycroft had many other questions he wanted to ask about Greg’s personal life and what else he’d been up to. To avoid the temptation, he redirected his focus to the reason he was here in the first place. “Where does Sherlock come in?”

Greg sat back and crossed one ankle over his knee, and Mycroft had to force his eyes away from the way his trousers pulled taut over his thighs. “A week ago I went to go see Grandmere and help her ice biscuits. I always liked piping the gingerbread men. She was very troubled, and kept asking me cryptic questions about the Trust Centre. I finally coaxed her to admit what was going on with Sherlock. It seems your parents were set to come visit for Christmas, but cancelled because Sherlock’s habit had been escalating and they were deeply worried that he was going to overdose.”

Mycroft’s face crumpled as he thought about how bad it had become lately, and how helpless he felt. Greg went on, “She said that the centre sounded like a wonderful solution, but admitted that the family couldn’t afford it. That was supposing they could get Sherlock to agree to it, which seemed unlikely.”

That was true enough. Greg was right about the existence of prison-like rehabs, and Sherlock was deeply afraid of feeling like he would be incarcerated. Mycroft had tried pointing out that his drug habit was going to land him in a real jail, but it had no effect. “So, what finally convinced him to give your place a try?”

Greg distractedly ran his hand up and down his thigh, and Mycroft wanted to growl at him to stop. “I went to see him in London and we had a long talk. I shared my experience and I also gave him the name of former patients living in London that he could also talk to. Then I suggested he come with his parents to France for the holidays as they originally planned, and while they were here, I invited them on a tour of the facility. That was on Christmas Eve. Sherlock decided that he wanted to do the programme right away, so he spent Christmas with his family and then checked in the day after.”

Mycroft fidgeted with his tea cup. “And what about the programme fees? I think you know we can hardly afford a place such as this.”

Greg took another sip of coffee. “The thing is, all of our patients are charged on a sliding scale. The wealthy pay an obscenely high fee, and are offered lots of perks at extra charge. That revenue covers the cost of running the centre, and then some. Everyone else pays what they can afford. It’s not really advertised because rich people don’t like the idea of rubbing elbows with the lower classes. We have relationships with hospitals and counseling centres where they refer clients to us. In the case of Sherlock… Given that Grandmere has been my honourary grandmother for decades, I gave them the family discount. He’s here at no charge.”

Mycroft felt an odd mixture of gratitude at Greg’s kindness, and distress that his family left him out of the loop like this. Why hadn’t they told him any of this before now? Could it be because he kept refusing anytime his parents brought up going to Grandmere’s for Christmas this year? He wouldn’t have said no this time, even if he’d known of Greg’s involvement. He would have been gratified to spend the holiday with them knowing Sherlock would finally be getting help. “I don’t understand why they didn’t bring me in on the plan.” His voice cracked a little as he spoke.

Greg’s eyes were compassionate. “Sherlock asked them not to, as a condition to coming to France.” Mycroft’s eyes widened and he felt the air leave his lungs. Greg sat up in his chair and leaned forward, putting his hand on Mycroft’s arm. “Myc, he was afraid of disappointing you. He wasn’t sure yet whether he wanted to try it and was waiting until he’d seen the place. He thought if he got your hopes up, it would make him feel trapped into saying yes even if he didn’t want it. He told your parents to wait until he checked in to tell you.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, feeling both comforted and distracted by the warmth of Greg’s fingers resting on his arm. He opened his eyes, his expression hardening. “I have a hard time believing that. Why be afraid to disappoint _me_ and not our parents? He had no problem letting them in on the plan. I think it’s more like he thought I would be critical of it. He has this stupid idea that I’m always judging him. It’s not true, I just…don’t always know how to cope with his addiction. It was hard enough when it was happening t-to you. Sherlock is my baby brother and I’ve had to watch the whole thing unfold.” His breath hitched as he felt tears threatening. 

Greg’s hand tightened. “Myc, he wasn’t lying. Your approval means so much more to him than his parents. That wasn’t the only thing. He said he felt guilty about something that happened to you and wanted to make it up to you. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, though. He said he’d work through it during the programme. Whatever it is, he feels very burdened by it.”

The tears spilled over onto Mycroft’s cheeks and he put his hand over Greg’s in a desperate need for comfort. “Oh _Sherlock_. I’m so sorry, brother mine, I never wanted you to feel responsible.” Greg put his other hand on top of Mycroft’s and waited patiently for him to continue. 

“I-It’s to do with my career. For nine years I’ve been rising through the ranks of the British government. It was going well, I was becoming quite a formidable influence. A couple years ago, when Sherlock was in university and started using…I vowed to help him as much as I could. I used as much of my influence as I could to watch over him, keep him out of trouble, try to get him help. Unfortunately, my superiors found out what I was doing and were not pleased. I managed to convince them it wouldn’t affect my work, and they were placated for a while. But Sherlock just got worse and worse and I had to take more and more time off work and finally earlier this year…they cut me loose.”

Mycroft’s face crumpled and Greg’s hand soothed over his. “I was d-devastated. It was one of the biggest blows of my life. I tried to avoid Sherlock finding out, but…he misses very little. It made things even worse. He’s been avoiding me, and I’ve been terrified of getting a phone call… _the_ phone call with bad news. The last time I saw him, a couple months ago, I tried to reassure him that things were fine and that I’m already on a brand-new path. I’ve been accepted as an assistant professor of political science at LSE. I’ll be starting at the spring term. It’s what I was doing over Christmas, getting things set up in my new office. He didn’t seem to believe me. He thinks he ruined my career. He knew how important it was to me. How much I...I sacrificed for it.” 

Sherlock, brilliant as he was, had figured out what happened between Mycroft and Greg, and why Mycroft had put a stop to it. In one frank discussion when Sherlock turned 18, Mycroft had told him that caring wasn’t an advantage, and the world was cruel when it came to homosexuals. It had partly been an explanation of why it didn’t work out with Greg, and also an attempt to warn Sherlock. Mycroft had come to his own deductions about his brother’s sexual orientation and was deeply afraid for him. Years later he wondered if he’d made things worse, had made Sherlock afraid to love and turn to drugs instead. 

Mycroft used his napkin to wipe away his tears. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I rejected you because I was afraid dating a drug addict would affect my career.” He huffed out a bitter laugh. “It all seems so pointless. I gave up the chance at love for that _stupid_ job. And I lost it anyways.” Unable to take Greg’s touch anymore, he pulled his hands away. 

Greg’s voice was gentle as he said, “We’ll never know how it would have gone if we’d started seeing each other, but I have a feeling it would have been the disaster you predicted it would be.” Mycroft found that he couldn’t agree. In the months since he lost his job, he thought often of how it might have been different. 

As if reading his mind, Greg went on, “I know for sure that I never would have met Dr. Nilsson and realised what I wanted to do with my life. I probably wouldn’t have received my trust money because my father would have convinced the trustees not to give the fund over to a ‘queer.’ This place wouldn’t exist. I can’t regret how things turned out, even though it hurt like a bitch for years. And I really hope things turn out for you. I think you’ll make a brilliant professor.”

Mycroft felt a spike of heat rush up his neck as he worked up the courage to respond. “It certainly is a much different environment. I’ve heard…that academia is not as judgmental when it comes to personal lives. As long as I’m discreet.” He tried to make it sound casual. Now was not the time for this conversation to happen, but he wanted to throw it out there. “Anyway, I look forward to touring the centre and seeing Sherlock.” He smiled blandly. 

Greg stared at him a few moments, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth, frowned, and then closed it. He stood up. “Yeah, let’s do this.” He started to step forward, then turned. “Mycroft, there’s something you should…”

Before he could finish, they were interrupted by a harried looking woman. “Sir, Mr. Cartwright has called again. He is even more angry than before.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Christ. I’m sorry, Mycroft, I’ve been putting out fires all day. It’s the holidays, everyone gets so bloody worked up. I don’t know how long this is going to take, so I’ll introduce you to our intake director and she’ll give you a tour and set up your visit with Sherlock.”

Mycroft was disappointed that Greg wouldn’t be showing him around personally, but it was probably for the best. He was already feeling a charge in the air between them, and it wouldn’t do to be distracted as he was making sure his brother was well taken care of.

Several hours later, Mycroft felt relief that Sherlock was in good hands. The facility was excellent, the programme rigorous but fair, and he and Sherlock had a long talk that was more productive than any they’d had in years. He was hoping to see Greg again, but when the intake director escorted him to Greg’s office, he wasn’t there. His assistant had no idea where he was. Feeling too awkward to stick around, he decided he’d try and get in touch with Greg later.

Mycroft was almost to his car when he heard a voice behind him call, “Wait!” He looked back and saw Greg trotting towards him.

Mycroft felt warmed by the knowledge that Greg had come after him. “Greg, I’m glad you caught up with me. I didn’t get a chance to tell you that I’m _very_ impressed with Trust Centre. It’s a fine place and I believe Sherlock will do well here. _You’ve_ done well here, Greg. I’m very happy for you.” He gave him a warm smile.

Instead of pleased, Greg looked oddly bereft. “I-I’m glad you like it, Myc. Look, I never did get to tell you the rest of it. What happened after the centre was built.”

Mycroft gazed at him softly. “There’s more?”

Greg bit his lip. “Yeah, it’s pretty significant. Um…I moved back into the Lestrade estate, in that wing on the opposite end of my parents. Fortunately, I didn’t have to see much of them. Mum thinks what I’ve done with the money is wonderful, but Dad…well, anyways. I guess I started spending time in their circle of friends since I didn’t know anyone. And to be honest I saw them all as potential donors. Anyway, I-I met someone. Another expatriate from London. Her name’s Veronica. She’s brilliant. Reminds me a lot of Katharine Hepburn. Except she’s blonde.” His eyes darted up to Mycroft’s hair briefly, then to the ground.

Mycroft’s heart twisted. “I see. You’re finally in a proper relationship. That’s good. And everything is going well with her?”

Greg looked back up at him, and his expression was the very definition of bittersweet. “We got married a year ago. And found out over Christmas that she’s expecting. I’m going to be a father.”

Mycroft wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. He schooled his features into pleasant surprise. “Greg…that is…congratulations. On both your marriage and impending parenthood. I know you’re going to make a wonderful father.”

Greg’s smile was rueful. “I’m scared shitless. The Lestrade men have a poor track record at being parents. I don’t ever want to be like them.”

Mycroft gave him a fond look. “The fact that you have these thoughts already puts you far ahead of them. You’ll do fine.” Greg gave a jerky nod. “I should get going. I must go visit Grandmere and then tomorrow I need to get back to London. I’ll be back to visit Sherlock as often as I can. Thank you again for taking him in.” Greg nodded again. He looked a little lost, and Mycroft hoped his own expression didn’t mirror it.

He turned and got into his car, and as he backed out of his space, Greg waved goodbye at him. Mycroft gave a little wave back, and then drove on. Somehow it felt even longer than the journey he had taken to get here.


	6. 2009 Part I

2009 – 43 and 46 

As Mycroft made the drive down to Nantes, he thought with a bittersweet ache how apropos it was that Grandmere had died at Christmas time. It had always been her favorite time of year, so now the gathering to celebrate her life would have a holiday feel to it. According to Mummy, who had been with her at the last, she slipped quietly off with The Christmas Song playing in the background. She was 90 years old.

Cynically, Mycroft also thought the time of year was apropos, because going to _that_ place at _that_ time of year seemed to always spell heartache. It was why he always preferred to visit Grandmere in July.

Mycroft shook himself out of his malaise. As sad as he was about Grandmere’s death and the prospect of facing ghosts from his past, it didn’t take away from his happiness at getting the news that he has been granted tenure at LSE.

It was the one real joy in his life, to have finally accomplished something this meaningful. Teaching was very satisfying to him. He still shaped minds behind the scenes, it was just students instead of politicians. He found that he preferred it that way. 

There was one other thing that gave him joy - Sherlock. He’s been making quite a business for himself in his detective work. Not very lucrative, as he mostly solved crimes for Scotland Yard and they didn’t pay more than his expenses. But he was quite happy. 

Mycroft would see him at the funeral. Despite living in the same town, they never saw much of each other. Sherlock hated socializing and Mycroft tended to prefer the cosiness of his flat. He supposed he was starting to get set in his ways, typical for an ageing bachelor. It wasn’t like there was anything to motivate him to get out and about. He’d even stopped shaving and now had a full beard.

What he had told Greg all those years ago was true – there was less of a stigma for gay men in academia. But Mycroft honestly didn’t have much desire to pursue anything romantic. Emotions were exhausting and unpredictable. He occasionally felt longing for companionship, for a gentle touch, for passion, but not enough to pursue it. He supposed if someone came along that made it seem worth the risk, he would change his mind. But no one did. 

The pursuit of romance might be dead in the water, but Mycroft’s sex life was…occasionally…more active. Not a thing happened in the almost decade that he worked for the government. There had been times when he was propositioned by men, but he never took them up on it, too terrified it was some sort of trick to expose him. 

Once he was settled into LSE, he met another professor named Edward who expressed an interest in him. Edward was a closeted gay man married to a woman that he would often loudly and volubly declare the most horrible person on earth. Mycroft met her at a function once, and silently agreed. Edward endured much from her, and only occasionally reached his limit. When that happened, he didn’t yell, or hit, or retaliate against her in anyway. Instead he would go to Mycroft, get down on his knees, and give him a blow job that probably rivaled most porn stars. Mycroft was usually screaming out his orgasm by the end of it. And then Edward would get up with a sly little smile and go home to his wife.

Sometimes, in his most shameful moments, Mycroft would fantasise that it was Greg who was coming to him in frustration. He never did meet Veronica, so in the fantasy he could pretend that maybe she was as horrid as Edward’s wife. Mycroft always felt awful when he did this. He didn’t _actually_ hope she was horrid. He could never wish that on Greg, who deserved only happiness. 

Mycroft supposed that he would be finally meeting her, though it wasn’t a guarantee. Greg would most certainly be at the funeral, but there was no expectation that his wife would accompany him. She may need to stay home with their child(ren?). Mycroft desperately hoped she would stay home. He had no wish to see the woman that Greg loved so much that he pledged his life to her.

Mycroft reached Nantes without incident and checked into a hotel. Mummy had said he could stay at the cottage, but he’d begged off saying that the memories would be too painful and he wasn’t ready. It was true enough. The times that he has gone to visit Grandmere in the past two decades, it was always on his own and so he was given the upstairs guest bedroom. With his parents and Sherlock already there, he would have to take the bedroom behind the kitchen and that was _not_ happening. 

*

Grandmere’s funeral was just as Mycroft had predicted – a celebration of her life. Rather than mourn her death, everyone was grateful that she had lived as long as she did. She had touched a lot of people, and there were many stories with more laughter than tears.

Mycroft ended up arriving at the last minute due to an accident that backed up traffic coming in from Nantes. He very quickly made his way to the front to sit next to Sherlock, and didn’t dare look around to see who had come. When the service was over and they stood, he glanced around and saw Greg a few rows back talking to his mother. 

Mycroft quickly looked down, his heart pounding. Greg’s hair was now completely silver. In fact, Mycroft had thought for a moment it was Mr. Lestrade he’d seen. But their features weren’t similar enough – Greg took after his mother. Mycroft risked another glance, and saw that Greg was now talking to a boy that Mycroft realised must be his son as he looked to be the right age. Mycroft felt transported back in time to when he’d first met twelve-year-old Greg. The boy was his very image, except that he was pale blond. Speaking of which, Mycroft hadn’t seen a blonde woman with them. She could be at home with younger Lestrade children. 

“Do you think you could stop ogling the Lestrades long enough to move out into the aisle? You’re blocking my way.” Mycroft glared at his brother, but did as he bade. Sherlock and their parents followed him out into the aisle. Mummy gave Mycroft a tremulous smile and he gave her a hug. 

“I’m so glad you made it, dear. Sherlock said you texted him about traffic. You really shouldn’t be texting and driving.”

Mycroft gave her a fond look at her scolding. “Mummy, traffic was a standstill when I sent it. And I texted because I knew Sherlock wouldn’t answer if I called. Never mind that, we should go stand at the door to greet the mourners.” Sherlock made a noise of disgust. Mycroft ignored him. “Will the reception be at the cottage?”

Mummy shook her head as they made their way to the front of the church. “No dear, the Lestrades offered to host it in their home. It was so generous of them. Now we don’t have to worry about fitting everyone in.”

Mycroft gave her a strained smile. If it was at the Lestrade house, then Veronica would be there for sure. He looked away and caught Sherlock’s eye. His brother smirked at him as if he knew exactly what Mycroft was thinking, which he probably did. Mycroft clenched his jaw and walked faster. Sherlock caught up to him and whispered, “I know something you don’t know,” in a sing-songy tone.

Mycroft gritted, “It’s a _funeral_ , Sherlock. Try to show some decorum.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. “I rather think Grandmere would appreciate the gossip.” Mycroft threw him a sharp look, but now was not the time. The mourners were making their way up the aisle and he would have to endure all their condolences.

Mycroft tried to find a balance between zoning out for sanity’s sake, but paying just enough attention to catch any prompts that required responding. As soon as the Lestrades stepped up, he snapped out of it. The parents were first. Mr. Lestrade’s sour expression had not softened at all in the intervening years. 

Sherlock, being on the end, was the first to greet Greg and his son. “Hello there, Alexander.” 

“Hello there, Sherlock,” the boy said solemnly. Mycroft covered his shock that they knew each other. It had never occurred to him that Sherlock would keep in touch with Greg, but it made sense. They had bonded during Sherlock’s stint at the Trust Centre. 

Mycroft couldn’t stop staring at Greg’s hair. He looked incredible, and Mycroft was reminded of Cary Grant in Charade. Greg was speaking with Sherlock, but then he turned to Mycroft and his gorgeous brown eyes were full of compassion. “Mycroft, I’m sorry for your loss. I will always be thankful you allowed me to share your grandmere.” His eyes twinkled. “Let me introduce you to my son, Alexander. Alex, this is Mycroft. He’s Sherlock’s brother.”

The boy looked up at him with soft brown eyes. “I am sorry for your loss.” He paused, looking down for a moment. When he brought his gaze up again, he said very seriously, “When I was younger, Grandmere gave me many hugs and they were soft and nice. She made delicious sugar biscuits and gingerbread men at Christmas, and in the summer she gave me ice lollies.”

Mycroft’s heart seized. “Thank you for that sentiment,” was all that he could manage. 

Greg put his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, then moved on to say something to Mummy. Mycroft was entirely numb for the rest of the receiving line.

*

Mycroft was relieved to see that the house wasn’t decorated the same as it was at the party he attended two decades ago. Wealthy people were rarely sentimental when it came to holiday décor. His parents still had the same ornaments from when he was a child, cooing over them every year as they were taken out of their storage containers. 

Though the decorations were not the same, nor most of the furniture, the bones of the house had not changed. The corner where he had been standing when he encountered 24-year-old Greg, was obviously still there. He knew that if he went exploring, he would find the room that had held the record player where they’d danced to Elton John. It was probably replaced with a state-of-the-art sound system connected to speakers in every room, currently the source of Silver Bells playing softly above them.

Mycroft considered his usual strategy of finding a place where he could disappear into the woodwork. Clearly, he couldn’t use the same corner as before, because Greg had found him then. Near the refreshment table was always a good choice. Not too close, as then people would chat him up as they were loading their plate. Just far enough away that they would be too focused on the spread of food to notice as they pass him.

Just as he had stationed himself a reasonable distance from the food, the voice that haunted his dreams murmured, “Mycroft.” _Goddamnit_.

Mycroft reluctantly turned and faced Greg. Christ almighty, this new hair of his was going to be the death of him. They’d be holding another funeral days from now. “Greg,” he said weakly. “I want to thank you and your family for hosting this. I am both gratified and not at all surprised that so many people want to share in celebrating Grandmere’s life.”

Greg smiled fondly. “She was an incredible lady. Always was able to see right through me. I’m not positive, but I think she knew.”

“Knew what?” Mycroft asked faintly. Greg simply gestured between Mycroft and himself. “Ah. I think you may be right.” He still remembered the look she had given him that time he told her not to share gossip about the Lestrades anymore. There had also been her comforting manner when he’d gone to visit her after that tour of the Trust Centre. He’d been so shook up and he always suspected she knew it wasn’t only about Sherlock. 

Tears sprang to Mycroft’s eyes. He’d never fully appreciated Grandmere. Hadn’t visited her as often as she deserved. Greg made a sympathetic noise and stepped closer to envelop him in a hug. Part of him was relieved to have an excuse to have Greg in his arms. Another part felt like it was pure torture.

Afraid of embarrassing himself, Mycroft gently extricated himself. “Greg, your son is…it’s like 35 years has melted away and I’m seeing you as you were when I first met you.” Greg chuckled, obviously pleased. “But there is a difference. You were much more exuberant at that age. Alexander reminds me more of…well, myself.”

Greg beamed. “I often think that, too. He does remind me of you. Very studious, very serious. I wonder if he’ll become a professor someday.”

Mycroft knew he should ask after Alexander’s mother. At some point it would become obvious he was avoiding mention of her. In fact, he was surprised that Greg hadn’t brought her up or pointed her out. Did he sense that Mycroft was still choking with resentment twelve years later and therefore avoiding the subject?

Suddenly Mycroft remembered Sherlock’s taunt from earlier. ‘I know something you don’t know.’ Mycroft felt his heart pulse with the realisation that _something_ had happened. Something that Sherlock knew about. As much as they loved to bicker, Sherlock wouldn’t be cruel. Which meant that whatever it was, he knew Mycroft would _want_ to know. 

“Greg…” Mycroft felt a little dizzy. “…is your lovely wife here today? I have yet to meet her.”

Greg immediately looked away, and Mycroft’s heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest. “Yeah, about that…” Mycroft could deduce years of pain in his tone, and his heart broke a little. _Oh Greg_. “Veronica and I are divorced.”

Mycroft took a deep, steadying breath and wished the reception had been at night and booze present. “I…I’m so sorry, Greg.”

Greg shrugged one shoulder. “It…it’s not as bad as you think. We got married for all the wrong reasons and I’m honestly surprised it lasted as long as it did.”

Mycroft blinked in surprise at this. “Did you not love her?”

Greg winced. “No. And she never loved me. It’s hard to explain what was going on in our heads at the time. I was getting to the point that I didn’t think I’d ever get to be with…” He paused, and his tongue came out to wet his lower lip. “…well…someone to love, but I was feeling that pull to settle down and get married and have kids. Granted, most of that pull was my parents pestering, but I really did want that on _some_ level. Veronica came along, and she had the same desires. We got along really well, and she was attractive. It seemed to make sense at the time. I forgot somewhere along the way that I’m a hopeless bloody romantic, and was only reminded when…well, anyway.”

Greg cleared his throat and shrugged. “I resigned myself to my fate. We had Alexander, and things seemed to be fine. And then Veronica met some guy at work. I think she was just as shocked as anyone by how hard she fell for him. Though she could have tried a _bit_ harder not to end up in bed with him. But I can’t be mad at her. I’d be a hypocrite given that she wasn’t the one I was thinking about whenever I had a wank in the shower.” Mycroft sucked in a breath… _who_? Greg went on, “I just feel bad for Alexander. I wanted him to have a better relationship with his mum. But he’s always preferred me and she was fine with giving me custody.” 

Mycroft gave him a compassionate look. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He seems very resilient.”

Greg sighed. “He is, yeah. He’s a trooper. I just have all these confusing feelings about the whole thing. Like, I really regret having married her. It was stupid and it just ended up with people getting hurt. But at the same time, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have Alexander. He’s incredible and I’m so proud of him. He’s the only thing making me feel like I’m not a complete failure.”

Without bothering to think, Mycroft stepped into his personal space and took his hand. “You are not a failure in any sense! You have done wonderful things, and I only have to look as far as my brother to see that.”

Mycroft saw spots of colour rise up in Greg’s cheeks. “Maybe in my professional life. It took a bloody long time, but I finally achieved something there. But when it comes to my personal life…it seems like it always works out that sooner or later I get tossed aside for something better. Except for my son. He chose me. And I choose him, too. He’s my priority now.”

Mycroft let go of his hand and stepped back, feeling like an utter shit at hearing Greg remind him that he chose his career over him. It was true, and the regret Mycroft felt since then didn’t make up for the fact that he hurt Greg. “Quite right,” he said with a weak smile. “He deserves all your focus.”

Greg gave him a soft smile. “I’m glad you think so. My parents have been telling me I need to quit feeling sorry for myself and start dating so that Alexander can have another mum. He already _has_ a mum. I think they figure if I get married again, people will forget that I’m divorced in the first place. But it’s out of the question. Alexander’s not going to play second fiddle to wife #2.”

“Why would he have to play second fiddle? You could have a relationship with someone, as long as they understood your son’s importance.” Mycroft wondered what in the hell he was thinking, encouraging Greg towards _another_ marriage.

There was a glint in Greg’s eyes as he responded. “Do you really think most people would agree to come after a kid in the pecking order?”

Mycroft lifted his chin. “Most people are idiots.” Greg barked out a laugh. 

Alexander appeared at Greg’s side. “Grandmama has asked for you to come fix the stereo system. It keeps playing the same song over and over.”

Greg gave him a quizzical look. “Alex, you could do that yourself no problem.”

Alexander shrugged. “She won’t let me touch it, says I’m too young.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Christ. Alright, let’s go. I’ve monopolised Myc’s time too much anyway.” He gave Mycroft a rueful grin and headed off upstairs.

Mycroft’s head throbbed as he considered everything he just learned. Greg was no longer married. Greg had never loved his wife. Greg was now a cynic eschewing romance in order to raise his kid. And Mycroft was one of the arseholes who made him this way. It felt awful to admit to himself that his heart beat a little faster to learn he’d meant that much to Greg. Because Greg certainly meant that much to him. He must have looked really depressed because he was soon descended upon by mourners wanting to extend their sympathy for his loss.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably a couple of hours, the mourners began to disperse. Soon it was time for the Holmes family to give their thanks to the Lestrades for their hospitality. Mycroft tried not to stare at Greg as they approached.

When Mummy thanked them profusely, Mrs. Lestrade patted her hand. “It’s the least we can do. Mrs. Vernet was a dear member of the community. Now, the caterer says we have quite a lot of leftover food from the reception. I’d like to arrange for them to pack some of it up for your dinner tonight.”

Mummy thanked her again. “That would be lovely. Would you mind making a separate container for Mycroft? He’s not staying with us at the cottage. He’s at a hotel in Nantes.”

Greg’s eyes sharpened at this. He took Mycroft’s arm and pulled him over to the side. “Why are you staying in Nantes?”

Mycroft flushed red. He stammered for a moment, then decided to just be honest. “With all of us there at once, I’d have to take the room behind the kitchen. I haven’t slept in that bed in 22 years.” His blush deepened at having admitted, out loud, how significant their interlude had been to him.

The look Greg gave him was so intense it took his breath away. “I see. You know, I don’t think leftovers would work well when you’re in a hotel room. Better to just go out to dinner. I’ll recommend my favorite restaurant.”

Puzzled that Greg wasn’t going to comment on such a huge admission, he said weakly, “I appreciate that. Do you have something to write down the name and address for me to put into GPS?”

Greg gave him a fond smile. “Sure. Or I could just pick you up at your hotel and take you there myself.”

Mycroft ducked his head, feeling a tremor run through him. He huffed out a laugh. “Yes…that would be ideal. You know your way around better than I do.” He told him the name of his hotel, and Greg said he would pick him up at 7pm.


	7. 2009 Part II

2009 continued

In what was probably the most optimistic moves of his life, Mycroft stopped by a chemist on his way back to the hotel and purchased condoms and lube. Greg had been giving him a lot of mixed messages, but whatever ended up happening between them, he’d be damned if he shut down one possible outcome due to lack of supplies.

He spent an age deciding what to wear. There was the funeral suit with dark colours he was wearing earlier. There was the blue suit he had designated for his drive back to London. He also had his ‘country’ suit that he brought in case his family wanted to do something tomorrow. Greg would probably appreciate the soft green tones and the corduroy. He decided to go with that.

When the front desk called up to let him know he had a visitor, he had a minor meltdown, and then told himself to snap out of it and went downstairs to greet Greg. He almost swooned into a puddle at the sight of Greg in a slate grey turtleneck jumper with matching trousers which had been tailored to be so obscenely snug that Mycroft rather suspected Greg’s tailor had a thing for him. 

Mycroft somehow managed to not make an idiot of himself when he greeted Greg. As delicious as the man looked, it would be unseemly to invite him up to his room when they hadn’t even dined yet.

The restaurant was quite lovely. Over the years Mycroft’s tastes have become quite posh, and the menu definitely boasted such options. At the same time, the overall theme lacked pretention, and Mycroft knew that had to appeal to Greg. 

It was one of the most fascinating things about him - Greg never seemed to want wealth for wealth’s sake or think that it made him superior to others. He had seen money as a way to freedom, and his only mistake was that for a while he allowed himself to be imprisoned by it. But he was truly free now, and it looked very, very good on him. 

As they enjoyed their appetisers, Greg asked about his career as a professor. Mycroft told him stories of his students that had him doubling over in laughter. “You really care about them, don’t you?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Of course. They never cease to surprise me.”

Greg bit his lip. “I hope I’m not betraying a confidence, but that’s one of the things that Sherlock told me helped him make peace with how his addiction affected you. You told him stories about your students and it was obvious you were happy.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’ve managed to do a much better job balancing my career and my admittedly unhealthy need to look after my little brother. He and I have never talked about this, but I have my own burden of guilt when it comes to him. First it was the fact that our age difference meant we had little in common and I shamefully distanced myself from him as a result. He felt it most keenly when I went off to university. Then there was the fact that I gave him some rather bad advice on occasion, thinking that I was being worldly and wise when really I was passing along my cynical viewpoint shaped by my disappointments. I probably _should_ talk to him about these things, because I fear that some of it he still has internalised.”

Greg gave him a soft look. “Hmm, I think I know to what you’re referring. ‘Caring is not an advantage.’ ‘Alone is what protects me.’ Sound familiar?”

Mycroft felt like he was punched in the gut. “Oh god, then it’s true? He’s said these things to you?”

Greg took a sip of his wine. “Yeah. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he really believes them himself, deep down. He uses these…mantras…as a shield. A tool to help him cope with his loneliness. But they aren’t a part of him, if that makes sense. He could…put them down and walk away. For the time being, anyways. I fear that if he continues to go on without companionship, it could become permanently embedded. He needs to have more people in his life who care about him, who understand his quirks. He needs a friend, someone who could be there for him all the time. I do my best, but I live here, you know? And I also wish that he could find love, because I think he has a great capacity for it.”

Mycroft swallowed hard. “He really does. And I hope for the same things. Thank you for telling me all this. I realise I truly have been remiss in not having a heart to heart with him. I fear that I’ve let him set the tone of our relationship in this past decade, afraid of pushing for more, and now that I think about it, it’s much too superficial.”

Greg grinned. “Don’t let him know I put you up to this, he’ll never forgive me.”

Mycroft chuckled. “It will be our little secret.”

Their entrees arrived and so they ate in companionable silence for a bit. “Tell me more about how it’s going with your rehab centres. I know you opened a second one as I read about it in the newspaper. Interesting that you chose Sussex.”

Greg smiled. “It was Sherlock’s idea. I was telling him that I wanted to open one in the UK, but wasn’t sure where. His suggestion was meant to be flippant, but then it led to a discussion about what it was like living there. It’s a beautiful area and he confessed that he could see himself retiring there.”

“To keep bees,” murmured Mycroft. “Yes, he’s told me that before.”

“The Sussex location is thriving, and last year I opened up another location in America. Maine, to be precise. It’s sort of become a theme to open up a centre that has a beautiful coastline nearby.”

Mycroft gazed at him in wonder. “ _Three_ Trust Centres. Greg that’s…amazing. I’m so impressed. Well done.”

Greg ducked his head, a pleased smile on his face. “The only one prouder than I am is Dr. Nilsson. To see his dream spread…it’s been my great privilege to make it happen. You want to know what he said to me once? He said that an important reason why the centres thrived is because of my business savvy. I knew how to run the business, how to invest, how to attract investors…and it’s funny because I wouldn’t have known how to do all that if I hadn’t gone to business school and joined a finance firm that taught me all these things. As you’re well aware, I hated that time in my life. It all seemed so superficial and pointless and I used drugs to cope. That’s the ironic part - those very things that contributed to my addiction I was able to use as a tool for helping others overcome their own suffering.”

Watching the glow of happiness that emanated from Greg, Mycroft felt the air leave his lungs as he finally admitted to himself that he was hopelessly in love with him. He’d danced around the sentiment for years and years, afraid to give it shape and permanence because it could only lead to heartache. But he could deny it no longer. Even if he never saw Greg again after tonight, he would carry his love for him until the end of time. Mycroft looked down at his plate, striving for control of his emotions. He forced himself to take bites of food so that his silence wouldn’t seem suspicious.

He cleared his throat. “Speaking of the business of running three centres, I imagine you do quite a bit of travelling?”

Greg chuckled. “I’m definitely racking up the airline miles. I briefly considered basing the American centre in San Francisco, but the expense was too offputting. In hindsight I realised making the journey there would be a real bitch. But I don’t really do it that often, especially since the divorce. As I’ve said, Alexander is my biggest priority. I’ve made sure I’ve got a good crew running each centre.”

Greg fiddled with his wine glass. “In fact, I’m thinking of setting up someone at the centre here so that I’m not physically tied to it. I’ve made this my main base so that Alexander can have stability in schooling and his social life, and I’m happy to keep doing so up until he goes off to university. But lately he’s been expressing an interest in boarding school. I’m not that keen on it, and I try to tell myself that his experiences won’t be like mine. It’s still a couple of years off in any case. But if he _does_ end up taking that option and spends most of his year somewhere else, there’s not really a reason to stay here. I don’t exactly relish living with my parents. They’ve been convenient as babysitters and they are Alexander’s family, but I’m not really close enough to them that I want to stick around that house any longer than I have to.”

Mycroft paused as the server came to clear the table and they took care of paying the cheque. “If you don’t stay in France, where will you go?”

Greg shrugged. “That’s a good question. I do miss London. It always felt like home, even when I was miserable. I could live near one of the other centres, in Maine or Sussex. You think your parents would put me up?” He winked.

Mycroft chuckled. “Absolutely. After what you did for Sherlock, they see you as something of a third son.” 

Greg smirked. “Does that mean we’re like brothers? If so, we’ve been rather naughty haven’t we?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Lord, never say anything like that again!”

Greg giggled as he stood up. “Come on, let’s get you back to your hotel.” Mycroft stood up as well, and he felt his heart begin to pound. 

On the car ride, he felt it even more and hoped he didn’t have a stroke. The radio was playing Song For A Winter’s Night, and _lord_ was it evocative. ‘If I could only have you near to breathe a sigh or two.’ 

When they pulled up to the hotel, Mycroft was thrumming with nerves. “Greg…would you like to come up for a nightcap?”

Greg’s eyes glittered in the ambient light from the hotel entrance. “A nightcap? You got one of those mini fridges filled with tiny bottles of booze?”

Mycroft licked his lips. “No, I do not.” He felt a roaring in his ears. He had a sudden vision of going up to his room alone and chucking the condoms in the waste bin and using the lube for the saddest wank ever.

Greg didn’t say anything, but he put the car in gear and made the turn into the parking lot, sliding into the nearest available slot. When he turned the car off, Mycroft finally felt calm settle over him. 

When they got to Mycroft’s room, Greg’s eyes wandered the room a bit, then fixed on him with a gaze so intent it made him shiver. “I was afraid to ask this in the car…worried I might spook you if you actually had to spell it out… What do you want to happen here, tonight?”

Mycroft felt warmth flood his cheeks. Without a word he went over to the chemist bag on the nightstand and held it out. Greg came over and took it. He peeked inside, and after a moment a slow smile spread across his face. “Ah fuck, Mycroft, you never fail to be utterly brilliant. You’re wonderful, you know that?”

Mycroft swallowed hard. “You’re the only one who’s ever made me feel like I might be. Full of wonder, that is.”

Greg set the bag down on the nightstand. He turned to face Mycroft and brought a hand up to cup his cheek. Mycroft gazed down at him, watching as his eyes seemed to turn liquid. Unable to resist any longer he lowered his head and captured Greg’s lips. Greg made a small noise and circled his arms around Mycroft’s waist, pulling him closer. 

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg’s shoulders and deepened the kiss, moaning as Greg’s tongue plundered his mouth. Something snapped inside of him and he sucked on Greg’s tongue, overwhelmed by the passion that was awakened 22 years ago and forced to merely simmer all this time. He wanted to devour Greg. He wanted Greg to devour him. He broke the kiss, gasping. “It’s not enough,” he groaned.

Greg stroked his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. “What do you want, darlin?”

Mycroft’s face crumpled. “I want…so much. I want…more than what we can do in one night.”

“Hey, hey,” Greg soothed. He placed his hands on either side of Mycroft’s face. “I know we waited a long time for this, but it’ll be alright. Here, lay down right here on this bed.” He gently pushed Mycroft until he was sitting on the bed, then further coaxed him until he was reclined on the pillow. “I’m gonna take care of you. I’m gonna take you apart.” He climbed up in the bed and then settle down on top of Mycroft, propped up on his elbows. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Mycroft’s ear. “You want me to be the one to take you, am I right?”

Mycroft’s breath hitched. “ _Yes_. Yes!!” He bit his lip. “Greg, I’ve never…done that. Either way.”

Greg was pressing kisses down his jawline, nuzzling into his beard. “You’re still the only man I’ve been with, darlin. But I have read up on it. The internet’s an amazing thing.”

Mycroft hummed with pleasure as Greg alternately sucked and bit at his neck. “And when did you have occasion to be reading about it?”

Greg nuzzled their noses together, occasionally nibbling at his lip. “Off and on over the years, out of curiosity. With a bit more purpose since my divorce.” He lifted his head and gazed at Mycroft. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again, but I wanted to be prepared.” He glanced at the chemist bag. “I’m very glad I’m not the only optimist.” He shifted back a bit and reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out a small bottle of lube and a condom. 

Mycroft giggled as he tossed it onto the table, the laugh turning into a moan when Greg reached down and started undoing his tie. “I don’t think you know how much your suits turn me on. All I can think is that you’re like an elaborately wrapped present. I want to tear it off like an impatient kid on Christmas morning.”

“Mmm, no tearing please.” Mycroft’s fingers flew to his waistcoat so he could undo the buttons himself, wary of Greg’s impatient fingers. Greg straddled Mycroft’s hips with his knees and then sat up, hooking his arm behind Mycroft’s back and pulling him into a sitting position so that he could tug off Mycroft’s jacket. The tie was next, followed by the waistcoat. As Mycroft’s shaking fingers started on his shirt, Greg pulled the tails out of his trousers, pausing every so often to give Mycroft a filthy kiss.

When the shirt was unbuttoned, Greg’s movements slowed, peeling the shirt back from Mycroft’s shoulders and down his arms, tossing it aside. Mycroft went pink, realising it was the first time he was fully shirtless in Greg’s company. Greg nodded slowly. “That’s right, babe. We never got this far last time. Never got to fully see your skin.” He brought his hands up and rested them on Mycroft’s shoulders, caressing them up and down his arms, then down his torso. He pushed Mycroft softly, and Mycroft once again reclined on the pillow. 

In one swift movement Greg had yanked his turtleneck up and off, throwing it in the same general direction as Mycroft’s shirt. Mycroft swallowed at the sight of his lightly furred chest, the same colour as his hair. Greg lowered himself so that their chests were flush against each other, and Mycroft shuddered at the skin to skin contact. Greg captured his lips and they kissed and kissed, with the added sensation of Greg’s chest hair scraping against his nipples. 

Mycroft circled his arms around Greg’s waist, running his hands up and down Greg’s back, revelling in the feel of the muscles rippling underneath his fingers. He was starting to feel overwhelmed again, so he set himself a task. He brought his hands around to the front of Greg’s trousers and began to unbutton them. He’d never forgotten the feel of Greg’s cock in his hand, and now he would get to see it. 

Greg shifted a bit so he could toe off his shoes and socks. When the trousers were unzipped, they came off as well. Mycroft fumbled with getting his own shoes and trousers off, distracted by Greg’s thickly muscled thighs. Christ almighty, had he done rugby as a youth? It was a reminder that there were still many things that he didn’t know about Greg.

When they were both down to their underwear, they resumed kissing. Mycroft felt dizzy with the amount of skin pressing and sliding together. Greg’s erection against his thigh with only a whisper of cotton between them. Mycroft took the opportunity to grasp handfuls of Greg’s arse, almost whining at how lovely it was to touch him this way. 

He must have tugged, because it triggered Greg to start thrusting. Just a languid roll of his hips, but it was a giddy reminder of what was to come. The very thought of it had Mycroft parting his legs to wrap around Greg’s hips, thrusting up to meet him. Greg groaned against his mouth, sucking on Mycroft’s lower lip. He lifted his head and affectionally regarded his handwork. Mycroft had no doubt his lips were red and swollen, with the way Greg was practically devouring him. Greg’s tongue darted out to swipe against his own puffed lips.

Mycroft reached up to run his fingers through Greg’s hair. He smirked a little. “You don’t seem to be put off by the grey. M’not surprised. I do recall your little thing about Cary Grant.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Precisely. I love your hair, you silver fox. And I seem to recall something about….ginger hair?”

Greg leaned down and began nuzzling into Mycroft’s hair. “You know I think it’s sexy as hell. Not to mention your legs for days, just like Jimmy Stewart. Do you know how many times I’ve got off thinking about them wrapped around me like they are now?” He thrust hard, sliding their cocks together, the friction of the fabric doing nothing but frustrating him. 

Mycroft gasped, “Fuck! Greg, I need our pants off, _now_.” He reluctantly unwrapped his legs from Greg’s hips so they could accomplish this goal. Greg’s came off first, and he almost wept at the sight of his hard and leaking cock, dizzy with the knowledge that it would be inside him shortly. Mycroft lifted his hips so that he could get his pants off, and Greg made a noise that was almost a growl. Mycroft’s cock twitched at the sound, and he sucked in his breath when Greg took a hold of it and began stroking it reverently. 

Mycroft took his time exploring Greg’s cock, starting at the top and sliding his fingers down until he was cupping his balls. Last time he’d touched Greg this way had been full of urgency, and this time he wanted to savour it. Greg hummed his approval as Mycroft kept on his journey back and forth. “That feels incredible, darlin.”

“I can’t wait to feel it inside me, Greg,” he breathed. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“I know, babe. Believe me, I know.” Greg reached for the bag, rummaging for the condoms and lube. He squeezed some liquid onto his fingers and then reached down between Mycroft’s legs, massaging his entrance. 

Mycroft let out a little, “Oh!”

“Everything alright? I need you to tell me if I do anything wrong. If it hurts at all, please tell me.”

Mycroft smiled gently up at Greg, reaching a hand up to smooth his furrowed brow. “It’s fine for now, I was just surprised that I would feel that much sensation from one little touch. I don’t think you’re going to be able to avoid hurting me, I’ve done some reading myself. I promise to let you know if it’s too much.”

Greg swallowed hard and applied more lube to his shaking fingers. Mycroft was true to his word, letting Greg know when it was too much and needed a pause, and when it was okay to add another finger. Greg slowly but surely worked him open, pausing to occasionally give him soft kisses, and his tenderness and concern washed over Mycroft’s aching heart. 

By the time they were satisfied that Mycroft was ready, they were both trembling with nerves and anticipation. Greg shakily applied his condom and slicked himself up with lube. He gazed down at Mycroft, and the look in his eyes, like he was something precious, almost had Mycroft in tears. 

A few tears did squeeze out when Greg penetrated him. It hurt. It was intense. It was breathtaking. He was actually physically joined now to the one man on earth with whom he felt an emotional connection. The pain felt like an underline highlighting that connection and he revelled in it. Mycroft wrapped his legs around Greg’s hips, and coaxed him in further. Greg was panting his name and he felt raw and powerful.

When he was all the way in, Greg kissed and kissed him, whispering praises in a voice tight with emotion. Mycroft reached down and grabbed ahold of his arse, squeezing and tugging, and Greg took that as his signal to begin thrusting.

Mycroft was quite enjoying himself with just feeling the sensation of Greg’s cock sliding in and out of his arse, having his arms around him, feeling his lips and his tongue lavished over his neck and face and mouth. He didn’t even care about the whole prostate thing that he’d read about. This was more than enough and his cock leaked in agreement.

But it apparently wasn’t enough for Greg, who kept tilting his hips in different directions, obviously searching it out. Mycroft would be amused if he wasn’t feeling blissed out by the filthy rhythm of their lovemaking. The blissful feeling vanished when Greg found what he was looking for. Mycroft let out a gasp and his limbs tightened reflexively. Greg chuckled darkly against his ear. “Bingo.”

Mycroft whined when Greg began thrusting in earnest, letting out breathy little gasps every time Greg hit his prostate. Greg was making noises himself, grunting moans that gave Mycroft goosebumps. 

Finally, he couldn’t put it off any longer, the urge to pump his cock to get release overwhelmed him. He gave a little shout of relief when his fingers closed around his cock. Greg breathed, “That’s it sweetheart, come for me. M’almost there too.”

The tenor of Greg’s rumbling voice was what sent him over the edge. When he ejaculated, some of it hit Greg’s neck. He would have found that hot, but he was too focused on Greg’s face as he hit his own orgasm. Mycroft could feel him pulsing inside of him and he almost wished the condom wasn’t there. He wanted to feel filled up. 

Greg collapsed on top of him, and they both concentrated on getting their breathing under control. They were slick with sweat, and it cooled their skin as they came down from their exertion. Mycroft felt flooded with emotions that he knew were based on hormones, but he didn’t care. He felt utterly fantastic and wanted nothing more than to keep Greg here in this bed for the rest of their days. 

Greg pressed a kiss to his temple, then gently pulled out, shifting to the side for a moment, then with a whisper that he’d be right back he went to the bathroom to take care of the condom. When he did come back, he had a flannel wetted with warm water and cleaned Mycroft’s torso. After disposing of it, he climbed back into bed and gathered Mycroft into his arms. 

Mycroft held onto him tightly, burying his face into Greg’s neck. He found himself uneasily recalling the last time they cuddled after sex. It hadn’t lasted long before Mycroft completely destroyed it with his anxiety, utterly dismissing Greg’s desire to have a future with him. That wouldn’t happen again. Times were different. _They_ were different. 

They lay like that for a long time, with Mycroft stroking Greg’s back, and Greg running his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft was feeling drowsy and contemplating whether he should get up and brush his teeth or leave it till morning. Greg squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry, darlin, but I’ve got to go.”

Mycroft looked up at him in dismay. Greg gave him a regretful smile. “I gotta get home to Alexander.”

Mycroft winced. He forgot for a moment that Greg was now a father with responsibilities. “Right, of course.” He reluctantly unwrapped his arms from Greg’s torso, shivering at the cold air when he tilted his body back so that Greg could get up.

Mycroft watched as Greg got dressed, uneasiness creeping up on him. He was unable to interpret Greg’s thoughtful expression. He couldn’t even find it cute that Greg’s hair went all mussed after pulling his turtleneck over his head. He sat on the bed to put his shoes on. When he was done, he turned to Mycroft and rested his hand against his cheek, stroking his whiskers with his thumb. “This night was…incredible.” He leaned in and gave Mycroft a tender kiss. “You have a safe trip back to London, okay? Good luck on your first term as a tenured professor.” He smiled fondly.

Mycroft blinked up at him, confused. “Are…are we going to see each other again?”

Greg’s smile faltered. “Sure, next time you come down for a visit. You know where to find me. I’m just a walk through the woods.” He gave him another soft kiss, then stood up and walked to the door. Mycroft stared after him, feeling wrong-footed. What was happening? Greg looked back, his smile bittersweet. “Goodbye, Mycroft.” The door closed and he was gone. 

Mycroft didn’t understand. _When he comes down for a visit_? Grandmere was gone, there would be no more visits to the cottage. Did Greg forget that? Or was he implying Mycroft could come down to see him? Like…like a long-distance fuck buddy? Was that all that Greg wanted? Or did he think that was all they could be? Mycroft supposed there was the issue of him being tied to London with his new tenureship. And Greg was tied to France until Alexander went to boarding school… _if_ he went. It could theoretically be _years_ before Greg was free to come back to London.

Mycroft turned into his pillow, smelling Greg’s scent there. He groaned in frustration. He felt sure that Greg wanted more than just sex. Might even return his love. But he had other priorities now, not willing to give them up as he’d offered to do two decades ago. Mycroft would have to either wait his turn or…be willing to give his own life up. Mycroft felt the air leave his lungs. This must be why Greg hadn’t made any overtures this time. Clearly he wasn’t sure Mycroft would do either. And who could blame him for not showing his cards like he did last time?

Mycroft’s first impulse was to go after him, tell him he would absolutely give up everything, it wasn’t even a question. As much as he would hate leaving his tenured position, he shuddered at the very idea of walking away from Greg all over again. But he realised he owed it to Greg not to act when he was in a state of ‘post-coital bliss’ as he’d so arrogantly put it all those years ago. He had to be certain of what he wanted and what he was giving up. Mycroft sighed. He’d go back to London, get through the rest of the academic year, and figure things out. When he came back, there needed to be no doubt in Greg’s mind that he was all in. He deserved that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d never heard the Song for a Winter’s Night until I was googling romantic Christmas songs for an earlier chapter. It didn’t work for that year, but I put it on my playlist and fell in love with it.


	8. 2010

2010 – 44 and 47

Sherlock thought that he was being an idiot. It made Mycroft all the more certain that he was doing the right thing. Maybe. 

“This is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard of in my life. You are going to throw away _everything_ you ever worked for, and you haven’t even _discussed_ this with Lestrade? You have no idea that he even wants you to do something so monumental on his behalf. What if it’s not at all what he wants? Do you know how horrified he’d be that you burnt all your bridges just for him?”

Mycroft attempted to look serene as he refuted Sherlock’s concerns. “I assure you I’ve thought of every eventuality. Let’s assume Greg isn’t interested in being with me romantically. I will simply explain to him that I changed my mind about teaching and would rather write a book on subject matters in which I have expertise. Furthermore, Grandmere’s cottage, which we’ve inherited, is the perfect quiet setting to accomplish my goal. It will seem as if my moving to France is entirely organic. Greg would have no reason to be uncomfortable.”

Ignoring Sherlock’s eye roll, he continued. “Now, let’s assume that Greg _is_ interested spending the rest of his life with me. I’ve deduced that he’s become quite pragmatic now that he’s a business owner and father. If I had told him I wanted to give everything up for him, it is likely he would be concerned that he was somehow forcing me to do something I’ll regret, and he’d try to talk me out of it. The only way to convince him of my sincerity is to present it as a fait accompli. I also think it’s more romantic this way. _The Grand Gesture_.” He made a swirling motion with his hand.

Sherlock made a vomiting motion with his. “Since when did you become a hopeless romantic?”

Mycroft folded his hands primly. “Since 1974. It just took me 36 years to stop fighting my true nature. Take that as a lesson, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, but Mycroft knew it was for show. Much has changed between them in the past year. They had that long overdue talk and it seemed as if maybe Sherlock was going to take it to heart that there were _some_ advantages to caring.

Even if Sherlock never took Mycroft’s word for it, he had the sneaking suspicion that a certain ex-Army doctor might end up thawing the wall of ice he’d moulded around his heart. It didn’t absolve Mycroft of his erroneous influence on his little brother, but it did fill him with relief.

“I don’t know if I care to take lessons from someone whose big plan has a fatal flaw.”

Mycroft gave him a supercilious smile. “Not possible. It considers both possibilities as I have outlined.”

Sherlock smirked. “You’re either going to present your move to France as either an organic decision that had nothing to do with him, or as a Grand Gesture,” he made a flourish, “that has everything to do with him. _How_ will you know which one to present to him?”

There was a long pause. Mycroft sniffed. “I will be able to tell by his reaction when he sees me.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “You’re sure about that? You’re good at reading people, but it seems to me that Lestrade is a bit of a blind spot for you. Hence the reason why it’s taken 36 years for you to even get even this far.” Mycroft clenched his jaw. “Now, myself, I can read him like a book. He’s practically a neon sign to me.”

Mycroft glared at him. “Is that so? If you can read him so well, then by all means tell me which it is.”

Sherlock’s expression was sly. “And spoil the surprise?”

Mycroft’s lips tightened. “You are a hypocrite, Sherlock. You have your own blind spot.”

Sherlock’s face went blank. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Mycroft sighed. “How about we make a deal? If I’m successful in my mission, will you perhaps see it as a sign that you should take some of the things we’ve discussed to heart? Specifically, the bits about recognizing what it is you really want and taking a chance on going after it.”

Sherlock snorted and began plucking at his violin. He must be really annoyed indeed. “I’m so happy you’re leaving the country. No more Big Brother watching over me.”

Mycroft hummed. “I might not have considered it if it weren’t for Doctor Watson’s timely appearance. He’s been taking good care of you.”

Sherlock scoffed. “You mean the way he’s constantly berating me to eat and sleep and not get myself killed by a suspect? Why does he do that? It’s the sort of thing a boyfriend does. I know this because he told me when we first met that boyfriends and girlfriends feed each other up. And yet he’s had a string of girlfriends. He’s planning to bring his current one to the Christmas thing Mrs. Hudson is throwing. He’s not making any sense!”

Mycroft forced his expression to remain impassive. “Did he ever ask you if you were attached?”

Sherlock scowled at him. “Of course, flatmates should know that about each other so you don’t have to worry about random people coming and going. I assured him I was married to my work, not interested in romance _whatsoever_. I didn’t realise he saw that as a green light to bring home all his randos.” He huffed.

Mycroft gave him a significant look. Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he shrugged to indicate he couldn’t interpret him. Or didn’t care to. Mycroft decided that he would let Sherlock suffer a little bit longer. He had his own romance to sort out.

*

It took Mycroft an age to figure out what of Grandmere’s furniture to keep (there were some very good pieces), what of his to keep, and what would be brand new. He definitely wanted to keep Grandmere’s gorgeous four poster bed that he hadn’t known existed because he’d never been in her room before. The mattress and linens would be replaced. He decided on the few things that he wanted to have brought from London and the rest could stay in the flat with the subletter until his lease is up.

The entire time he was moving in, Mycroft was on edge waiting to see if Greg would show up. He was afraid of seeming too eager by showing up on _his_ doorstep, which was utterly ridiculous given that quitting his prestigious career and moving to another country was already way the hell over into ‘too eager’ territory.

In the end, it wasn’t Greg who appeared at his front door, it was the Lestrade housekeeper. Her name was Celeste and he’d met her on a couple of occasions during previous visits. She said she saw the activity and was curious. She was very pleased that Madame Vernet’s grandson was moving in, and launched into a detailed account of the best places to get meat, baked goods, and fresh produce; who repairs rooftops and vehicles; a rundown of the local government (Mycroft would quiz her further later, as he always found small town politics to be the most lurid); and what’s going on with various neighbours near and far. 

Mycroft realised this was one mystery solved, as he had often wondered how his grandmere seemed to know so much about the Lestrades when she wasn’t close with them. And speaking of… “…and you know the Lestrades, of course.”

Not moving a muscle of his polite smile, he said casually, “Oh yes, but we don’t keep in touch. I last saw them at Grandmere’s funeral.”

“Ah, well, there is not much that has changed since then. Madame Lestrade is hosting a charity benefit that is making her very stressed out. She does it every year, I do not know why it continues to vex her. Her husband is at the office all of the time. Monsieur Greg is in America on business, but he promises to be home in a couple of days. He would never miss Christmas. Alexander is at school at the moment, I am scheduled to pick him up soon. It is his last day before holiday break.”

Mycroft was chagrinned to hear that Greg was out of the country, but he supposed it gave him time to get settled in and steady some of his nerves (hopefully not get worse). He may even get started on his writing schedule. He _was_ determined to write a book now that he was unemployed and living on savings. 

The head of the department at LSE seemed to think he would be successful. She was also quite annoyed that he was leaving right after achieving tenure. She guilted him into teaching Michaelmas term so they could determine how best to fill the gap he would leave. 

There had been a very touching farewell party for him. Edward looked quite morose the whole time. Things were becoming worse with his wife, and this past year he no longer had Mycroft as an outlet for his frustrations. Mycroft hoped he would find someone else, or perhaps come up with a better solution to his problems.

*

The day before Christmas Eve, Mycroft was curled up on the sofa with popcorn watching Love Actually on the television. It was dubbed in French, and Mycroft kept chuckling to himself at the voice attempting to do justice to Bill Nighy’s drawl. It was the only thing keeping him from sliding into despair. All the people in the movie were making Grand Gestures, and Mycroft wanted to pull his off but he couldn’t because bloody Greg wasn’t at home to see it. 

Mycroft looked down at the popcorn. He’d much rather be having cake, but he knew to stay away from the patisserie when he was feeling sorry for himself. He’d buy half the shop, losing most of his shopping budget and all of his self-respect.

Suddenly a thought occurred to him. He leapt off the sofa and went into the kitchen. On one of the shelves was a box with Grandmere’s recipe collection. He rummaged through and found her recipes for sugar biscuits, gingerbread men, and icing. It was the perfect solution to his sweet tooth. And it would be a nice bit of nostalgia. Plucking the cards out of the box, Mycroft threw on his coat and headed straight out to get the ingredients he didn’t already have.

Several hours later, he was throwing open all the windows in the kitchen, sitting room, and the front door to get rid of the acrid smell of burning gingerbread. Mycroft had received a phone call from an old colleague and lost track of time. Fortunately, all the other batches had been fine…if one didn’t mind variations in over and under doneness of the sugar biscuits and the fact that the gingerbread men puffed out too much so they were misshapen.

Mycroft took the pan of gingerbread men outside to dump them in the bin, not wanting the source of the smell to linger in the kitchen. Running a hand through his flour dusted hair, he was turning to go back inside when he heard a voice ask, “Mycroft?”

He sighed inwardly. Of all the times he was hoping to encounter Greg, it was not when he was wearing an apron, sweating from the heat of the kitchen, stinking of charred gingerbread, and flour absolutely _everywhere_. He pasted on a smile and turned around. Greg was standing there with Alexander, who was holding a leash attached to a dog. A rather sweet-looking border collie. “Greg. Alexander. Lovely to see you again. It’s only been a year this time.”

Greg was staring at him in disbelief, but then he huffed out a laugh. “That’s true, you’ve totally destroyed the curve I was projecting. Figured at least 15 years this time.”

Mycroft gave him a soft smile. “And you thought Sherlock was the unpredictable one. Would the two of you like to join me inside? I’ve been Christmas biscuits, and I can assure you that the batch I just threw away was not indicative of the whole. You can help me ice them. It’s a longstanding Vernet tradition.”

Alexander gave his father a hopeful look. Greg’s lips quirked. “We’d love that. Um…dunno if your Grandmere had any pets, so I don’t know how she felt about them in the cottage.”

Mycroft gazed down at the dog, who was staring at him with its head cocked to the side. “She was allergic to them, but I am sure that the dander will not reach her anymore. You may bring your charming pet inside.”

Alexander gave him a sunny smile. “Her name’s Esme.” He led the way into the door that led directly into the kitchen. Fortunately, the smoke and foul odour had ceased.

“You may have a seat around the table. I had not started on the icing yet as I wanted the biscuits to cool first.”

As Mycroft began to gather the ingredients, Alexander inspected the gingerbread men. “Those look like Mr. Blobby. I’m going to decorate mine with spots and a bow tie.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows went up. “Mr. Blobby?”

Greg rubbed his hand over his face. “Christ, you don’t want to know. Alexander, I thought you didn’t watch that stuff anymore.”

Alexander gave him a tiny smirk. “I’m too old to watch the show, but I’m not too old to forget you hate Mr. Blobby.” Mycroft had to suppress a laugh as Greg groaned. 

Once the icing was made, the other decorations assembled, and they were all gathered around the table, Greg went for the jugular. “So, what brings you to this neck of the woods?” His face held polite curiosity, but the way his teeth worried his lower lip indicated possibly there was something he hoped to hear. Or hoped _not_ to hear. Oh dear.

Mycroft cleared his throat delicately. “Well, it’s…um…I’ve been thinking about this for years…and er…I thought a book would be quite nice. To write…a book. About the areas in which I have expertise. So, then Grandmere’s cottage…and my parents didn’t want the hassle of selling. It’s so peaceful here. A match made in heaven, really.”

Greg’s brow furrowed. “Who’s a match made in heaven?” So much for being nonchalant. 

Alexander looked up from where he’d been piping yellow dots all over a gingerbread man. “He inherited this house, and it’s quiet, and it’s the perfect place to write a book. So, he’s moved in.”

Greg blinked at Alexander, then turned to Mycroft, wide-eyed. “What about your job in London? You just got tenure.”

Mycroft paused to gather himself. He’d already come up with a response to this expected question, but he was clearly having problems with using his words correctly. “Well, you know in life there are many things we _want_ to do, and we can’t do them _all_. So, we have to make choices. Decide which path is most important to us and go down it…even if it means leaving behind other things.” He gazed at Greg earnestly. “This is the path I have chosen.”

Greg stared at him for a long time, a half-iced sugar biscuit in his hand. “I see,” he said in small voice. _Oh Greg_ , Mycroft thought, I hope you do.

Too absorbed in his decorating, Alexander hadn’t noticed the fraught exchange. But he had been listening, apparently. “I sometimes wish I had a dozen lives to live for all the things that I want to do. I have so many ideas, and can’t figure out which I like most. I could be a veterinarian, or an astronaut, or concert pianist, or a businessman like Papa and Grandpapa.”

Mycroft smiled at this utterly charming boy. “Well, you have plenty of time to figure it out.”

Greg squeezed his son’s shoulder. “And you know I’ll be proud of you no matter what you decide. You don’t have to be a businessman like me. You can be whatever you want and I will support you.”

Alexander considered this. “Even if I were to become a serial killer?”

Mycroft, who had been taking a sip of tea, started choking. Greg looked up at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention. “Clearly I need to put a stop to your correspondence with Sherlock.” He looked at Mycroft. “They’ve been e-mailing each other. God knows what your brother sends him.”

Mycroft fought the grin threatening to split his face. “I’m sure he wouldn’t send the boy anything inappropriate.” Greg raised one eyebrow. Mycroft cleared his throat. “Alexander, you were saying something earlier about becoming a concert pianist. Does that mean you play?”

Alexander nodded. “Many years now.”

Greg beamed at him. “He’s quite good, too. There’s a children’s orchestra he belongs to, lots of recitals. There was a Christmas recital last week, I postponed my trip to Maine so I wouldn’t miss it. S’why I didn’t get back till today.”

Alexander had moved on to icing sugar biscuits, very carefully applying the various sprinkles. “The next one’s going to be at Easter if you’d like to come, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft gave him a warm smile. “I love orchestral music, so I would be very pleased to attend.” He looked over at Greg, who’s seemed to have grown molten.

“Papa, what time is it?”

Greg checked his watch. “4:25. There’s still a few minutes. Maybe decorate one more gingerbread man.”

Mycroft felt his heart sink. “You have plans this afternoon?”

Alexander’s face lit up. “I’m staying at my friend Robert’s house tonight. We’ve been planning it for weeks.” He launched into a detailed account of all the holiday activities his friend’s mother had arranged. Mycroft sent up a silent prayer for the poor woman’s stamina.

Greg gave his son a mock pouty look. “You’re leaving me for the night and I just got home. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, Papa. I’ll be home for Christmas.” He smirked at his father and they both giggled. 

Greg ruffled his hair and looked up at Mycroft. “It’s an inside joke with us, using song titles in conversations. Not all the time, just when you least expect it.”

Alexander put the finishing touches on the gingerbread man he’d been decorating to look like a soldier. “Mr. Holmes, may I take some of these with me? Robert would love the Mr. Blobby.”

Mycroft stood up. “Absolutely! Let me get a container.” He went over to a cabinet and rummaged for something. He found one, brought it to the table. As he began to stack biscuits into it, he paused as he suddenly recalled this was the one that Grandmere used to send Greg off with biscuits in the past. He still remembered it in Greg’s hands. Mycroft looked up and saw Greg staring at the container, his breath leaving his lungs as he realised he was remembering, too. Mycroft willed his hands to remain steady as he finished packing the biscuits. 

Alexander thanked him brightly and stood up to take the container. Greg stood as well. “Alexander, I’m going to stay here with Mycroft for a while longer. You take Esme home and pack for your sleepover, and Celeste will drive you over to Robert’s house.” 

Alexander bent to clip the leash onto Esme’s collar. “Okay, Papa.” 

Greg pulled him into a hug that went on for a bit as he whispered words of affection and instruction like, “I’ll miss you,” and “Don’t forget to pack your toothbrush.” Mycroft felt a lump in his throat as he watched them.

Greg held the door open for Alexander as he and the dog darted out into the chilly afternoon that was already starting to grow dark. Greg watched them a bit as they made their way through the sparse wooded path that led to the Lestrade estate. 

Finally, he closed the door and turned to Mycroft. The intent expression on his face had Mycroft feeling a little shiver run up his spine. “Now that we’re alone, you want to tell me the real reason you’re here?” His voice was more gravelly than it had been minutes ago.

Mycroft didn’t even consider continuing to prevaricate. “When I talked earlier about choosing a path. It wasn’t about leaving teaching behind so I could write a book. I could have easily done both in London. I left London behind because… _you_ weren’t there.”

Greg inhaled sharply. “You came here for _me_?” His tone was incredulous. 

Mycroft bit his lip, feeling apprehensive. “Sherlock thought I was an idiot for making such a drastic move without even knowing for sure that…that you would want me. But I felt sure that if I told you what I wanted to do, you’d try to change my mind.”

Greg took a step towards him. “You’re goddamn right I would have! Mycroft you _loved_ that job! I watched you talk about how much you enjoyed teaching those kids. And you were so happy to get tenure – to have security and prestige. To give all that up…for me.” He grimaced and shook his head. “I couldn’t have let you do it.”

Mycroft closed the distance between them, and reached out to grasp Greg’s shoulders. “See, I was _right_. You clearly think you’re unworthy of such a move. But you’re not, Greg. You mean more to me than anything else in this world, and this was the only way I could prove it. I have no regrets for what I did. I’m here, and I want to be with you. I believe with all my heart that you want the same thing.”

Greg stared at him, his expression a mingle of disbelief and hope. “Want the same thing? Are you kidding? I feel like I’ve spent half my life longing for you. But I can’t promise to give it all up for you in return. What I said last year about my son…that hasn’t changed and never will.”

Mycroft stepped even closer and tilted his head down till their foreheads touched. “Greg, why do you think I came here? I want to be in your life, the life you have with your son. I want to…to be a part of it, if you’ll let me. I promise I’ll never ask anything of you that you’re not willing to give. Just let me be with you. _Please_.”

Greg shook his head, and Mycroft’s heart seized. “No, no, no, darlin, we’ll have none of that. No begging. I’ve done enough of that for both of us and it’s not who we are anymore. From now on there is no question, we _will_ be a part of each other’s lives and count it a privilege.” He tilted his head up, capturing Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft whimpered and circled his arms around Greg’s shoulders, pulling him closer. 

They kissed and kissed, and Mycroft felt dizzy from relief. He trembled as he pulled back a little, gazing down at Greg. “You mean it? You’ll let me…”

Greg cupped his cheek. “Shhh, of course I mean it, sweetheart. I’m still trying to wrap my head around what you’ve done for me.”

Mycroft moaned in relief. “I’m just reversing a grave error that I made 23 years ago. You say you’ve been longing for me. I’ve spent that time hating myself.”

Greg rubbed his back, then paused. “Come on, let’s go talk this out.” He pulled back, tugging Mycroft’s arm to follow him. But instead of going to the sitting room, he headed to the bedroom behind the kitchen. Mycroft’s breath hitched. 

He hadn’t set foot in the room since that fateful night, not even when he took possession of the cottage mere days ago. Apparently, the cleaning service he employed had tidied things. Amazingly, it had the same patchwork quilt.

Greg sat down on the bed and pulled Mycroft down and into his arms. “You know, I tried to hate you for turning me down. Couldn’t do it. I remember the year after, I came home for Christmas, and I both wanted and dreaded that your family would come here. You know that song, Last Christmas? It would come on the radio and I’d try to use it to stoke my anger, but it wouldn’t work. Because you were right. It would have been an disaster if we got together. I was an utter mess, and had no business being in a relationship. I regretted having put you in that position. And I never felt it so keenly as when I was in the same position last year.”

He gently guided them so they were lying next to each other, face to face with their noses slightly touching. Greg carded his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. “I knew that we were once again in a situation where being together was…well, I thought it was impossible. You had your life in London, I had mine here, both with roots that went pretty deep. I thought I had no choice, I had to give you up again. Christ, Myc, I think it hurt worse being the one to walk away.” 

Mycroft nuzzled against Greg. “I believe it’s safe to say it’s been no picnic for either of us. But it’s all behind us now. Greg, I…I love you. Sometimes I don’t understand how I can feel this way about someone with whom I’ve never really spent any lengthy amount of time. But it truly feels like every moment we’ve spent together has been _us…_ distilled down to our essence…and I know you better than I know anyone else outside of my family. Does that make _any_ sense?”

Greg pressed forward and kissed him. “Myc, it makes perfect sense. Nothing’s ever come close to the way you make me feel. It’s like you’ve been under my skin from the start. When you think about us meeting…two little boys feeling lost, trying to understand the world. Somehow we understood each other better than anything.” 

He kissed Mycroft again, then curved his head around till his lips were pressed against Mycroft’s ear. “I love you, too, Myc. Thank you _so_ much for giving me your heart.” He leaned back to look in Mycroft’s eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I do believe, after all these years, that this is the first Christmas present you’ve given me.”

Mycroft smiled in return, so widely that his cheeks hurt. “You know what I would like my present to be? For you to stay the night with me, and we wake up on Christmas Eve together.”

Greg’s eyes gleamed. “I think I can swing that, won’t even need to dip into my trust fund. Our time together is priceless.”

Mycroft’s gaze was fond. “And hopefully from now on…more abundant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only know about Mr. Blobby because there was a video making the rounds of him on a British game show and one of the contestants was terrified of him and the whole thing was hysterical. I had to suffer through the likes of Barney and Caillou with my kid, so I feel Greg's pain.


	9. 2012 - Epilogue

Epilogue - 2012 – 46 and 49

Mycroft found it difficult to concentrate on the manuscript he was editing for a colleague. Greg was due home any minute, and he was impatient to see him. He’d been in Sydney an entire fortnight and Mycroft missed him terribly. He barely got through the last week of term. It was the longest they’d been apart in two years. Every time Baby Please Come Home played on the radio, he wanted to break something.

Greg often took quick trips to Sussex and France, and occasionally a week to one of the clinics in the States. In the past Mycroft went with him on those trips, but that wouldn’t be happening anymore now that he’s returned to his teaching position at LSE. 

A part of Mycroft wished Greg had postponed his trip to Australia until after term ended so they could go together, but he didn’t dream of voicing that wish. Greg had planned the trip so he’d be returning before Alexander came home from boarding school, and Mycroft had kept his promise that he’d not ask of Greg anything he wasn’t willing to give. Greg’s devotion to his son was one of the things Mycroft loved most about him.

Mycroft didn’t want to think about whether the foundation will decide to open a centre in Australia, or how often that will mean Greg is away. Ever since they finally got together two years ago, every moment apart left a sharp ache in his heart. 

Most people thought it was very romantic when Mycroft and Greg told the story of how they met and the progression of their relationship. But there were a pragmatic few who questioned whether they really knew each other when they got together. Mycroft himself had wondered if they would find themselves calling it quits within a month, secretly worried that Greg would find him too pedantic or that Greg would turn out to be a slob. But such was not the case. Every moment was a gift and Mycroft treasured his husband.

He also treasured his stepson, and genuinely missed Alexander now that he spent most of the year at boarding school. Greg was practically beside himself whenever his son left to go back to school each term and it was only the distraction of their move back to London that seems to have kept him sane. That and lots of cuddling with Mycroft, and Esme practically in his lap every evening.

Mycroft heard a buzzing noise and realised someone was at the door of the flat. He leapt to his feet. Had Greg forgotten his key? At the sound of a warning bark, he deflated. Esme always knew when it was Greg on the other side of the door, and her bark would have been more of an excited yip. Mycroft went to the door and peered through the keyhole. It was a delivery for him. 

When he opened up the small but heavy box, his disappointment turned into delight. It was the copy of his textbook that the publisher had promised to send him. He sat down on the couch and admired the shiny new cover with his name on it. He flipped through the pages, laughing to see all the words and illustrations and graphs. Months and months of hard work and it was finally done. The publisher had enclosed a list of universities that have already placed orders. He was pleased to see LSE amongst them. 

Mycroft bit his lip. He couldn’t wait to show Greg when he got home. He went back to his study to check his mobile in case a text came in while he was at the door. His face lit up when he saw there was indeed a text. _10 min <3_ It had been sent seven minutes ago. Thrumming with anticipation, Mycroft went back out to the living room and gathered up the packaging to throw away, carefully arranging the textbook on the coffee table. 

He was in the kitchen when he heard Esme practically yelp in delight, her nails scrabbling on the tile. Mycroft could picture her prancing around in a circle. The front door opened and then came the most beautiful sound in the world – Greg’s laughter. “Esme! Come here, girl.” The dog let out a happy whine and then the thump of a tail wagging on the tile.

Mycroft attempted a more dignified approach as he left the kitchen and made his way to the foyer. “Greg,” he said, his voice _almost_ steady. “Welcome home.” Greg looked up from the dog and beamed at him. The smile that had haunted his dreams for decades, the one he has never taken for granted now that he sees it every day. _Almost_ every day.

They flew into each other’s arms. Mycroft almost couldn’t catch his breath with how tightly Greg was hugging him. “Careful darling, you’ll squeeze the tears out,” he said in a tremulous voice. 

“Too late, mine have already made their escape.” Greg’s voice was gravelly. “Christ, I missed you, babe.”

Mycroft’s breath hitched in a sob as he reluctantly pulled away. “I don’t know why we’re being so maudlin about this. As Percy oh so helpfully explained the other day, with the way businesses are going global one must expect to spend a lot of time in the air. And spouses just have to learn to adapt.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Percy is a knob. He spends too much time with his head buried in economics textbooks and not enough time engaged with his own spouse.”

He tugged Mycroft’s shoulders, gathering him into his arms and pressing a tender kiss to his lips. “Why shouldn’t we begrudge every moment we’re apart, given how bloody long it took us to get together?” The next kiss was more passionate, with him sucking on Mycroft’s lip, eliciting a filthy moan. 

When they broke apart, Mycroft was gasping. “Sofa, _now_!” With a hand on Greg’s shoulder, he steered him towards the living room and pushed him unceremoniously down onto the couch. Mycroft knelt between his thighs, and with shaking fingers he wrestled with the button of Greg’s trousers. “I’ve thought of nothing else except getting your cock in my mouth.” When the fly was unzipped, Mycroft pressed his nose against the cotton-covered bulge. Greg let out a gasp above him.

Pulling at the waistband of Greg’s pants, Mycroft freed his cock and began to give it the attention it deserved. All those years that Edward visited him, he’d catalogued every action the man took. And when Mycroft finally had the opportunity to try them out on Greg, he proved to be an apt pupil. 

Mycroft perfected his technique in the past two years, customizing his every lick and stroke to Greg’s preferences, so that Greg was practically sobbing profanities as he came. He didn’t last very long this time, given how long they’d been away from each other. Indeed, all Greg had to do when he got Mycroft up on the couch was reach into his trousers and take hold of him, and he was coming into Greg’s hand.

Greg giggled as he often did when the endorphins hit. “God, that was brilliant. Come on, let’s go get cleaned up.” As he passed the coffee table, he paused. “Myc! Is that your textbook?!” 

He reached for it and Mycroft slapped his hand away. “I will not have you defiling my book with your filthy hands!”

Greg giggled again and they made their way through the master bedroom to the en suite to wash up. When they were done, Greg slung his arm over Mycroft’s shoulder. “C’mere you, let’s go have a cuddle. I have something I want to talk to you about.”

They went over to the bed and climbed up onto it. Greg flopped onto his back and held out his arms. Mycroft sank into them, draping himself across his husband and nuzzling into his neck. “Alright, what is it you wanted to discuss?”

Greg was silent for a moment. “Well, it’s funny you mentioned Percy earlier.” Mycroft lifted his head and stared at him incredulously. Greg giggled. “I just mean, because he’s a professor in the Economics department. It’s not so much about him as it’s about Dorothy Smythe. Remember when she was so eager to talk to me at the last faculty shindig?”

Mycroft sniffed. “Yes, I’m well aware of her attempt to monopolise you.”

Greg grinned. “She had a lot of questions about the business model at the Trust Centres. She’s very impressed with our success. Said it’s not easy to grow a business that’s run by a foundation and doesn’t have profit as the main priority.”

Mycroft smiled fondly. “I do recall her saying as much, and she was quite right. You should be quite proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

Greg blushed, and tightened his arms around Mycroft. “Anyway, she…uh…had a proposition for me. I didn’t mention it to you because I wanted to ruminate on it while I was away. Figure out if it was something I was even interested in.”

Mycroft raised both eyebrows. “Indeed? I assume you’ve concluded you are amenable, or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

Greg smiled warmly and leaned in to give him a kiss. “She uh…put forth the idea of me assisting one of the economics professors next term… _not_ Percy…to see if I might be interested in someday teaching my own class.”

Mycroft stared at him agape. “Are you telling me that she’s _recruiting_ you? To be a professor? At LSE?”

Greg looked apprehensive at his stunned expression. “I just thought…well, it would mean we’d see each other more often. Working at the same place. Not travelling all the time. We’d generally have the same schedule. But I mean…if you think it would be encroaching on your territory?”

Mycroft snapped out of his shocked state. “Encroaching? Absolutely not! Greg it…” he huffed out a happy laugh. “…it’s a _brilliant_ idea!” 

Greg’s expression relaxed and he smiled. “Yeah, I haven’t been able to come up with many downsides to it. Other than worrying I’d be rubbish at it.”

Mycroft scoffed. “You would be wonderful! You’re so engaging, everyone would be hanging off your every word.” He chuckled. “And more than a few students won’t be able to take their eyes off you. You’re quite dangerously attractive, you know.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “You’re full of it. No uni kids are gonna look twice at some grey-haired bloke like me.”

Mycroft’s eyes twinkled. “Mmm-hmmm. Well, I’m not worried. I do recall your policy on youthful crushes. I have many fond regrets.” Mycroft was reminded that he needed to pick up the leather jacket he ordered for Greg for Christmas. It wasn’t quite the shiny black studded affair from when he was 19, but it managed to somehow be both tasteful and sinful at the same time. 

Greg pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek. “So, you’re fine with me contacting Dorothy about the position?”

Mycroft nodded. “Of course. What will happen with the centres?”

“Well, Daniel was on the trip with me and we had a long talk about how feasible it would be for me to step back. I’d still have a position on the board of directors for important decisions, I’d just no longer be in on the day to day stuff. Daniel thinks we have a solid enough group of folks running each centre that they could learn to live without me. Cut the apron strings, as it were.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “I’m honestly a bit surprised that you’re willing to let it all go. This has been your passion for so many years.”

Greg trailed his fingers up and down Mycroft’s arm. “The centres themselves were never really my passion. That was Dr. Nilsson’s dream. What gave me purpose was using my skills for something meaningful. If it hadn’t been the centres, it would have been something else eventually. It all sort of came together in my head while I was in Australia. I realised that by teaching others how to use business skills to make a difference in the world, it’s like I’m going to the next level. Like that bible verse about teaching a man to fish.”

Mycroft’s lips curved into a smile. Greg never failed to amaze and delight him. He let out a sigh of bliss. “No more trips, then?”

Greg nuzzled his ear. “There’ll be times I’ll want to visit the centres, but it will have to be when it fits into _our_ schedule.” His voice was gravelly again, but this time Mycroft could tell it was from sleepiness. Jet lag was kicking in.

“You should get some sleep, love. You need to be well rested for the holiday party tomorrow night. And then Alexander will be home from school the next day. We have lots to do before we head down to Grandmere’s cottage.”

Greg groaned. “Christ, it really is only a week before Christmas, innit? Alright, I’ll go to sleep. Will you stay here with me until I drift off?”

Mycroft kissed his chest. “Of course. Budge over onto your side. You’re little spoon.” 

Greg gave him a sleepy smile and did as he was told. Mycroft curved around Greg’s back, holding him in his arms until he could feel Greg’s breathing slow into the soft snore that Mycroft found way too charming.

*

The next few days flew by as they prepared for their trip, planning to get to the cottage the day before Christmas Eve. The holiday party was a raucous affair, especially once Dorothy bragged to everyone about having recruited Greg for the Economics department.

Greg finally met Edward, and Mycroft was delighted to see that he’d brought a boyfriend to the party. Mycroft had heard through the rumour mill that he finally left his wife after an epic row at a Waitrose. The man he brought was quite jovial, smiling from ear to ear the whole party. Mycroft’s remark that it must be from getting blow jobs every morning and night caused Greg to turn bright red from trying to contain his laughter, and he had to go to the bathroom to recover.

When Alexander came home from school, he’d grown an extra foot and Greg took him on a quick shopping trip for some new clothes. Mycroft couldn’t help but notice he selected fitted trousers and button-down shirts that seemed suspiciously similar to Sherlock’s wardrobe.

He’d even taken to growing his hair out. It was curly like Greg’s hair had been in his youth, and also pale blond like his mother. His friend Robert jokingly called him Draco since his school’s colours were green and silver.

Alexander was at that age where he wanted to be grown up but also had a bit of a rebellious streak, so it was fitting that he wanted to emulate Sherlock, who was both elegant and irreverent. The perfect model for a 14-year-old boy. They’d see each other at the cottage, and Mycroft hoped Alexander wouldn’t try to monopolise Sherlock’s attention. Mycroft had a sneaking suspicion that a Grand Gesture was being planned by John, and he would need Sherlock’s focus on him.

Greg had asked Mycroft how he could be so sure that something was afoot, and Mycroft told him that it had been in the way that John finagled an invite down to the cottage with his oh so casual comment about Mrs. Hudson’s plans to spend Christmas with her sister in Leicestershire and how that meant they’d be on their own. Greg had responded that there was nothing out of the ordinary about wanting to be around other people for the holidays, and Mycroft rejoined that perhaps that was the case for normal folk, but Sherlock and John loved keeping to themselves. No, John wanted to take him away from Baker Street, somewhere idyllic, without arousing Sherlock’s suspicions. 

The three of them set out on the long drive from London. Sherlock and John left at the same time, but in their own car. John had made the very good point that they might murder each other if all five of them were in the same vehicle. What he really meant was that if the two Holmes brothers were in the same vehicle.

Alexander spent most of the time alternating between texting Sherlock, who was apparently quite vocal in his boredom, and his friend Robert with whom he was making copious plans. It was Alexander’s only regret about boarding school, that he didn’t see his best friend for much of the year. Otherwise he was thriving there, much to Greg’s relief. 

He had been worried that his son would have a similar experience to his own. Most of Greg’s issues from that period of his life stemmed from his upbringing being very dissimilar to his fellow students. Alexander had grown up in wealth, so it was a much easier transition. He did complain that some of his classmates were pompous pricks, but he assured Greg that he was easily able to put them in their place when he needed to. 

Mycroft read between the lines in those instances – it was no secret that his father was in a civil partnership with a man and it was inevitable that Alexander would get comments. Alexander himself had never seemed bothered by it personally, perhaps because Robert’s parents were two women and so he was used to it. He’d been very understanding that he had to give up his spacious room in the Lestrade estate to move into the cottage with Greg, because Mr. Lestrade refused to allow Mycroft in his house once he’d learnt about their relationship.

It was one of the few dark spots in their life – Greg’s estrangement from his father. Not that they had ever been close, but they’d at least maintained that façade of cordiality so common to families that shared blood but not much else. Greg once mused that it seemed to be a Lestrade tradition. His father marrying his non-posh mother had caused the rift with his grandfather that had him moving up to London, and now the very same thing had happened in the next generation. Until such time as he changed his views, Mr. Lestrade would meet the same end as his father – dying alone in that house. 

It was unlikely he would change. The last time they were in France, they’d run into Mr. Lestrade at a shop and he railed at Mycroft for making him lose his family, including his wife. She too had left him, finally fed up with how much he had turned into his own father. She was now back in London, as well, and had a much better relationship with her son and grandson than she had when they were living in the same house. 

Greg marvelled at his mother’s transformation, remarking to Mycroft that he hadn’t realised until now how much moving to France and gaining a fortune had dimmed so much of her vivacity. She’d spent decades weighed down by the expectations of the rich, and now she was free to go back to being herself. They’d invited her to come along to the cottage for Christmas, but she had decided to spend the holiday volunteering at a women’s shelter.

*

Christmas Eve was a whirlwind of activity. They wanted to do something active after having spent the previous day cooped up in vehicles, so they all ended up at the ice rink since Alexander was already planning to meet Robert there.

It looked the same, even after so many years. Obviously they’d made improvements, but it still had many of the same tacky lights and decorations for the holidays. Sherlock was also experiencing déjà vu as he pointed out to John various bits that he remembered from the times he’d been here. 

Alexander was a frequent visitor as a child, so he was quite adept on his ice skates. He was also getting quite a few looks from most of the girls there (and a couple of boys). Greg and Mycroft sat at one of the tables drinking hot cocoa as they watched him flirt with a lively looking girl that Greg said was one of his former classmates. 

“It seems that your son is having much more success than you did when you were naught but a year older than him,” Mycroft teased.

Greg chuckled. “He’s a charming kid. It helps that he’s dressed posh and so bloody good-looking.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “I can assure you that you were quite handsome. The problem was that you reeked of desperation. It was quite clear that you had one goal only.”

Greg groaned and rubbed his hand down his face. “Christ, you’re absolutely right. Just like you were back then. You were all of what, 12 years old? And you were able to see right through me and _know_ that I had something to prove. Some of it was about my father’s suspicions, and some of it was a crush I had on this bloke at my school, though I didn’t know it at the time.” 

He shook his head. “Anyway, I’m not at all ready for my son to be nearing the age where his hormones are going to go out of control. I guess it’s too much to wish that he was gay so that I don’t have to worry about unexpected pregnancies. Ah, what am I saying, he’s way more responsible than I was. I’m amazed I didn’t become a father a lot sooner, I was so bloody irresponsible.”

Mycroft smiled ruefully. “It was a different time. I had my share of…stupidity. I shudder to think…” he hefted a deep sigh.

Greg’s expression sobered. “I thought about that a couple of months ago when I was reading an article about the ravages of the AIDS epidemic. When I think about what you did at that bar, what could have happened to you, it makes me dizzy.”

Mycroft sighed again as he remembered the lonely ache, the desire for contact with someone, that had compelled him to such an act. “It _was_ a bit like playing Russian roulette.”

Greg gazed over at Alexander. “People are a lot more careful now, but the dangers still exist. I wish I could put him in a bubble. The older he gets, the more the world’s going to throw at him.”

Mycroft placed his hand over Greg’s and squeezed. “And you’ve done an amazing job preparing him for it.” His own gaze strayed towards his brother and thought about how Greg had pulled him back from the edge. He was currently attempting to look bored, but was quite obviously pleased to have John’s hand in his as they circled the rink.

*

That afternoon they made loads of biscuits and mince pies and other treats. Robert was there with them, having become a part of the tradition. His mothers eventually came to pick him up, but stuck around for a little while to share in some of the festivities. Greg insisted on playing music, as he’d amassed a wealth of Christmas CDs over the years. 

John pulled Sherlock into his arms to dance to Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, while Sherlock pretended to protest as if he hadn’t taken lessons at his request when he was a kid. When Winter Wonderland came on, Greg wanted to dance, and Mycroft still recalled him saying at the tender age of fifteen that he liked the romantic elements of the song. Even then he’d worn his heart on his sleeve, and now Mycroft was the lucky recipient of it. 

An hour later, after John led them in a rousing rendition of Happy Holiday, Robert and his mums couldn’t put off their departure any longer and said their goodbyes. The Holmes and Lestrades set about making dinner, and Mycroft, feeling nostalgic, played Step Into Christmas. Greg’s eyes gleamed when it started and soon he was hopping around the kitchen in much the same way he had when he was eleven. 

*

Later that evening, Alexander went off into his bedroom to spend some time on his laptop. Greg and Mycroft went for a walk after John whispered it as a suggestion to them. When they left the cottage, Sherlock was sitting in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames. John sank down next to him, the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree framing him. Mycroft almost wanted to take a picture, capture the moment as he knew what was coming next. Instead he closed the door firmly behind him and set off with Greg, arm in arm, to walk in the glow of the full moon.

They stayed out as long as they could, but despite the relatively mild winter they were getting quite cold. As they stepped back into the cottage, Mycroft noticed that John and Sherlock had moved to the couch, and they both had the look of people who had just done something momentous. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, and he saw apprehension flash in his little brother’s eyes. Mycroft stepped over and put his hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly. “Congratulations, brother mine. I am quite sure you will both be ridiculously happy.”

The trepidation dissolved, and Sherlock’s lips quirked just slightly before he rolled his eyes and muttered, “Sentiment.” John giggled and leaned over to give him a loud smacking kiss. Mycroft smiled fondly at his brother’s noise of disgust. Greg gave John a hearty handshake, then pulled Sherlock into a hug. The deer-in-the-headlights expression on his brother’s face had Mycroft giggling and soon they were all dissolving into laughter. 

Mycroft and Greg went up to bed soon after, and as they cuddled in the four-poster bed, Mycroft told Greg how happy he was that his brother finally found love. “He took almost as long as I did.” He paused for a moment. “No, that’s not true. I found my love much earlier than he did. I was eight years old at the time. But it took me 36 years to finally claim him. It took Sherlock only a year to come to his senses.” 

Greg pressed his face against Mycroft’s neck. “He told me it was you who inspired him to finally make his move. Because he saw how successful you were. He thought it was completely ridiculous and sentimental and utterly gobsmacked that it worked.” They both chuckled a little, and then Greg gave him a piercing look. “Of course it bloody worked. How could I resist a man who gave everything up for me? Who… _chose_ me? That’s all I ever wanted, Myc.”

Mycroft gave him an adoring look. “And you’re all I ever _want_. I’ve thought a lot about the past recently, and I need to stop doing that. Stop thinking about all the time we missed with each other. We have the future to think about, one in which we’re together…weaving the story of our lives as one. I’d like to start new traditions. Perhaps when Alexander goes off to university in a few years, we can start spending the holidays in London.”

Greg kissed his temple. “I’d like that. New traditions. I can think of one I’d like to start right now, if you don’t mind.”

Mycroft reached up and cupped his cheek. “Whatever you want.”

“I want us to make the same vows we did a year ago when we had our civil ceremony. Where we promised each other that we would be together the next Christmas, and every day in between. This past year, even when we couldn’t be together physically, we were there for each other in spirit. I felt that promise in my bones. It carried me through everything we’ve been through. I want to keep making it.”

Mycroft smiled softly and recited from heart the words he spoke last year. “I promise you, Greg Lestrade, that we will be together next Christmas, and every day in between. For better or for worse, I choose you. I am yours. I love you.”

Greg beamed and he leaned in to nuzzle their noses together. “I promise you, Mycroft Holmes, that I will be by your side next Christmas, and hold you in my arms as often as I can in between. Our hearts are now connected, strong and true. I love you.”

Their lips met and they kissed and kissed, sealing their promises and their love.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a link to a spotify playlist that has most of the songs mentioned in the story except the one by Ray Charles, which is not on Spotify.   
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6fHiedHJ6BumZx9e6bxTZT?si=jYj8FBnHQQWZNs_3LGVJxw
> 
> Fun Fact: this wasn’t intentional, but none of the scenes in my story actually take place on Christmas day. lulz
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed the fic! Special thanks to the Mystrade Fic Reading Club for all your help and hand-holding. You can find me gushing about these two lovely men on tumblr as ‘sherlock-nanowrimo’ and on twitter as ‘jadziastone’


End file.
